


you’re my only one

by LeilaKalomi



Series: The Avenging Angel [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alpha Centauri (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Revenge, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Michael has hated Crowley since the dawn of time. She can barely spare a thought for Aziraphale.This story spans Crowley’s time in Heaven, the end of the world, and after, as Michael’s jealousy turns to rage and obsession.Title from Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I changed the name from under pressure. Same fic.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at leilakalomi.tumblr.com
> 
> (There is smut in this fic, but only in the last chapter.)

Michael will never forget how it started. Partly because it was so simple, so _ slight_. She and Lucifer, the Morningstar, God’s two most favored angels, as she liked to remind herself, even if Lucifer was a little _ more _ favored, were walking. In those days, it was diffcult to say _ where _ they were walking, or _ when _ exactly, but they were there, together, ambulating, and eating the usual manna. There were other angels near them, and one of them, a thin, angular-looking Power with cascading bronze curls, looked up as they passed and caught Lucifer’s eye, and when Lucifer smiled at him, he said, without an ounce of formality or deference. “Not so great today then, right?”

And just as Michael felt a scowl forming on her face, felt the words of disapproval forming themselves into a lance with which to cut down this presumptuous Power, Lucifer _ laughed_. The Power grinned, all insouciance and pleasure, but none of it seemed related to having impressed _ Lucifer_, in fact, he turned to the other angels around him, all his own choir, Dominions and Powers alike, and seemed to share the laughter with them, to try to include them. Michael gave a little cough, as if to remind everyone of their place, and kept walking. Lucifer clapped the Power on the shoulder, and kept moving, matching her stride.

“What was _ that_?” Michael said, when they had repaired to their usual enclave, a corner filled with light and pure, unshaped energy.

“The Dominion? Oh, I don’t know, he meant no harm,” Lucifer said. “And he made a fair point.”

“He is a Power, not a Dominion,” Michael said.

“He is too beautiful to be anything but a Dominion, surely?” Lucifer said.

“Not at all,” Michael said. Had he been beautiful? All she had seen was angles and sharpness and fire. “A Power, that one. Cadamiel,” Michael said. “He works with the stars.” She has a mind for administration, can name all the lowly creations and their duties, if she has to, though she does not dwell upon this kind of inconsequential knowledge. After all, what would it benefit her to know the name Cadamiel? She is sure they will never have reason to speak.

***

But it is not the last time she sees him. Some days later, she finds herself alone when she would be with Lucifer. Uriel tells her that she is restless, and so she says, “Where is the Morningstar?”

And Uriel gestures. And there, across the room, in their enclave of light, is Lucifer, with the Archangels Raphael, and Barachiel...and the fire-haired Power. This might not have upset her, even after the events of the last week, if the Power had been cowed, kneeling before their greatness in awe and reverence, but instead, he rests with them, the four of them, as if they are all the same, lying against the cushions and speaking and listening, as if he is their equal. Michael watches until the Power leaves, and glories that he _ did _ leave, that the others remain as he walks away. Perhaps they have dispatched him, though he does not move with purpose, but with that same ease and insouciance. Then she stands, and approaches.

But though she sends her gaze after the Power, Lucifer does not explain.

***

Cadamiel spends his days grasping the energy and light that are everywhere, using the whole of his body to harness it, to redirect and shape it, into the stars. When he is not creating the stars, he moves through Heaven, greeting the other angels, mingling, eating, and resting. But a Power’s work is often solitary; they don’t work together, and when he’s not creating, he’s lonely. He speaks to everyone, but it rarely results in a conversation. So when he speaks to Lucifer and Michael, it is without regard for their stations—he barely realizes who they are, until Lucifer laughs, and the other angels laugh, and then he sees. The Morningstar. God’s most favored. Lucifer’s hand lands on his shoulder in a rare gesture of comradeship. Cadamiel cannot help but smile back, cannot help but smile at the other angels around him, all of them grateful for this moment of notice and inclusion from Lucifer, the Morningstar.

It is Lucifer who tells him, some days later, of the new angels God is making, who will protect Her coming creation, humans. These angels will have other duties, Lucifer says, but it’s not clear to Lucifer what they are. Lucifer frowns when he says this.

“What’s wrong?” Cadamiel asks, leaning in.

“Oh, not a thing,” Lucifer says. “Not a thing, my beautiful friend.” Lucifer reaches out, brushing his hand against Cadamiel’s wing very deliberately. Cadamiel shivers. He doesn’t know how to tell Lucifer no, so he moves away, afraid. If Michael saw...and just after her annoucement about keeping grooming only within members of your choir. Lucifer watches him knowingly.

“She won’t say anything, you know, if it’s me. I can groom anyone I like. And I can ask anyone I like to take care of me. I’m not _ in _ a choir. Not really.”

Cadamiel wonders what his touch would feel like. He’s never been singled out like this before, but he hadn’t liked it that Lucifer had touched his wing without asking. He hesitates, and then, there there she is, Michael. He nods at her, and stands up, and leaves.

***

Cadamiel knows that Michael does not like him. He saw it in her face that first time he made Lucifer laugh, but it was such a happy moment. He had put her dislike out of his mind. He makes a lovely star, thinking of that beautiful moment, and, feeling his work is done for now, returns to Heaven for a rest. And there they are: the new angels. Michael standing in front of them, telling them their names and orders. They are just angels, the mark of their lowness their insignificance. But the one second from the left quivers, ever so slightly, and it draws Cadamiel’s attention. His hair is like the stars Cadamiel makes, his eyes soft and open, pulling Cadamiel in as they see him. Cadamiel cannot help but smile. And the angel smiles back, his face wobbling as if he is not yet sure how to use it. And his smile has more light in it than the rest of heaven, than the stars themselves. _ Is it his first smile? _ Cadamiel thinks. And Michael bellows, “Aziraphale, your attention please,” and turns to see what has distracted him. _ Aziraphale, _ Cadamiel thinks. _ Aziraphale. _

Cadamiel nods at Michael as if in apology, and moves on, hoping she will be merciful to the new angel. Aziraphale. _ Was it his first smile? _ And for him? It is all Cadamiel can think, though he knows that it is nothing but pride.

***

“I don’t understand it,” Michael says. She perches on a pillow, watching as Lucifer tips his head back until the top of it touches her leg. He looks up at her. She’s squinting at one of his scrolls.

“Lucifer, this is wrong,” she says. “You cannot speak this way to the Almighty. You cannot claim loyalties; you cannot rule over anyone.”

“Astaroth and Gadreel have already agreed. They think I can. I would like for you to join us.”

She feels the urge to push him away, disgusted. “I feel I don’t know you,” she said. “If you think what I feel for you is allegiance. I am strongly urging you to put this aside and repent. She is merciful.”

Lucifer sighs and rolls his eyes. “Wings?” he says, extending his toward her. “Cadamiel is very beautiful, but he’s a bit of a disappointment.”

“Cadamiel is a member of the second choir,” Michael says. But it’s almost automatic—she doesn’t think about it when she speaks. She is tired of the name in her mouth; how many times must she speak about this insignificant Power?

***

The new angels have been encouaraged to do _ experiments_, for Earth. And they make trees and sky and water. At an assembly, all the angels are encouraged to explore the experiments, and offer their feedback. The principality Aziraphale has made something called dirt. The angels eye it with a kind of quiet embarassment. Cadamiel watches him, his sweet, open face drawn as the other Principalities sit away from him. He sees him sometimes, with them. They talk to him, but he always seems alone. Now Michael announces that the Almighty is pleased with all of their creations, even dirt. She tells them to continue. Aziraphale wiggles with his joy, but Cadamiel can see that he is trying not to show it.

Cadamiel finds the angel. It is not hard. Their orders were few, since the creation they will protect has not yet been made. The angel stands in something like what will later be a field, something he has made as an experiment. Cadamiel knows that they are supposed to direct it to Michael—not to the Principalities themselves—the Almighty was very clear about that, and if she had not been, Michael was. But she had not said they could not speak to them.

The principality is standing there, looking down at the _ grass_, that was what it was called, Cadamiel had heard. Cadamiel approaches him, then suddenly feels shy, as if he ought to wait to be noticed, though of course that is ridiculous, when he hadn’t even felt that way about Lucifer, and he abandons the feeling as soon as it occurs to him, and strides forward. The Principality, Aziraphale, seems to startle a little when he sees someone approaching, and then, as it becomes clear that Cadamiel is approaching not just the area, but Aziraphale himself, he kneels. The Principalities do that, Cadamiel has heard, on Michael’s orders. He does not like it, and he steps closer than he might have, otherwise, until Aziraphale is at his feet.

“Rise,” he says. The Principality looks up at him, uncertain. And he thinks of Lucifer’s hand on his shoulder, how affirming it had felt, and he rests his own on the Principality’s, and then finds that he does not know when or how to let it go. “Please,” he adds, making his voice as kind as he can.

He stands, and now it is obvious that they are uncomfortably close. Cadamiel is a little taller than the other angel, he sees now. Neither of them steps away.

“Is this your creation?”

“It is, Dominion…”

“Cadamiel,” he says. “But I’m not a Dominion.” He opens his hands, shows them sprinkled with stardust. “And you are the Principality Aziraphale.”

“A Power,” Aziraphale whispers. Then he turns and gestures to the grass around them. “I’m so terribly sorry. Will you be my supervisor? The head of my battalion? No—that’s Dominions, I think. My platoon, then, perhaps? Is the creation not to your liking, Power Cadamiel?”

He quivers again, slightly, looking as if he would again fall to his knees, and Cadamiel cannot stand it. He can feel a terrible tenderness creeping into into him, something he has never felt before, and he lifts a hand into the starry hair, soft as light. He has never touched another angel like this, though he sees the others lounging against each other, grooming their wings together sometimes. (Only with members of your own choir, Michael had announced, just before the new angels were announced. And the second choir meet sometimes for it, their touches cold and distant. Cadamiel prefers the Virtues’ touch, when he can find one.) The Principality’s eyes go wide, and Cadamiel almost weeps.

“Don’t fear me,” he says, his voice urgent and oddly swollen with emotion. But at least he must seem sincere: Aziraphale stills, the quivering abates, and Cadamiel catches his gaze and smiles, feels the other angel relax. He forces his tone lighter. “Tell me about the grass. And what in all of Heaven is a _ platoon_?”

***

Michael sees them. They have taken no pains to hide, and it is not clear to her why she believes they ought to have. Cadamiel, a Power, raising up this Principality this way, speaking to him from so close, his voice can be scarcely more than a whisper. She watches them, walking, watches as Cadamiel lifts the Principality’s hand into his, the Principality receiving, she fears, entirely the wrong message about rank. The Powers will be heads of platoons, she has been informed, once creation is done. And though she no more knows what a platoon is than any other angel, she knows that the Principalities will be in them, knows that _ this _ is no way for Principalities and Powers to be with one another. Cadamiel with Aziraphale is almost as worrying to her as Cadamiel with Barachiael and Raphael and Lucifer. It has to be stopped.

Michael waits. She waits until she comes across Cadamiel naturally—she cannot be bothered to approach him directly. She waits until she sees him coming out of one of the Principalities’ new creations, a forest, with Aziraphale, the two of them, their hands in each others again, and Aziraphale with stardust on his hands and Cadamiel with those plant things stuck in his hair, all over him, as if he’d been lying in them. They are laughing, both of them, their faces filled with wonder and awe, anytime they look at each other and Michael is angry—that expression is for God alone, and they _ know _ it, at least, Cadamiel _ knows _ it, and what is he _ doing _ to this new creation, to lead him so far astray?

“Cadamiel, Aziraphale,” she says, and immediately, Aziraphale kneels. Cadamiel narrows his eyes, places a hand on the Principality’s shoulder again. “Power Cadamiel. I would speak with you, away from this lower creation.” Cadamiel doesn’t remove his hand from the other angel, instead he lets it move upward, resting atop his head.

“If there’s anything you want to say to me—”

“Do not argue with me,” she says. She nods, and she and the Power are simply not there anymore.

Now they stand in her corner of light, and Cadamiel is frowning, the little yellow and white things still strewn about him, studded in his hair. He looks preposterous. “What is on you?” she says, gesturing to them in disgust.

“Oh,” Cadamiel says, raising a hand to his hair, and sending them cascading into the energy around them. He laughs. “Aziraphale made _ flowers _ . I was lying in a glade, just full of them. Like nothing you’ve ever seen. The world...it’s going to be beautiful. An absolute _ paradise_.”

“You are too free with the Principality,” Michael says. “You corrupt his sense of propriety and decorum.” But no, that isn’t it.

“Well, I’m free with everyone,” Cadamiel says. He shrugs. “Can’t really help it. Not much for _ decorum_, either. Way I was made, I suppose. Though I don’t mean Aziraphale any harm.” He adds this last softly, sadly. But Michael is barely listening.

She tries again. “You look at him as if...almost as if he were the Almighty herself. He is not worthy of your awe and wonder.”

Cadamiel blinks. “He is part of God’s creation,” he says, finally. “And so, I disagree.” But Michael had seen for a moment what she needed to. For a moment, he had looked afraid, and that means that she struck the right spot. Now she will have to wait to see if he bleeds.


	2. Chapter 2

Cadamiel does not stop. He cannot. The glade of flowers was just one thing of beauty he and Aziraphale shared. Before that, he took him to see the stars, held his hands and showed him where to look, guided the energy through him so he could experience it for himself, star-making, and Aziraphale had embraced him for the first time, the soft ferocity of his love overwhelming Cadamiel so he felt a tightness in his chest like something both heavy and light had entered him and filled him up and refused to leave, had promised it would never leave. He found that he was holding on to the Principality with a ferocity he had never known in himself before.

“Oh, Cadamiel,” Aziraphale said, twisting away from him, and he felt a rush, a panic. _ What was wrong? _ He would fix it, whatever it was. “I forget myself when I’m with you. Please forgive me.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Not ever.”

Aziraphale blushed, looked away from him, and back up, through his eyelashes. Cadamiel had never seen such a look before, and he stared at the angel. Then noticed that he was shaking, trying to hide it that he was struggling, just to _ be_.

“It’s _ uncomfortable _ for you here,” he said, realizing. The Principalities weren’t made for this kind of nothingness.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not with you. I’d rather be with you.”

“Even so,” he said, softly. And he took him in his arms again. “Come. Show me something you made.”

And then they’d gone to the glade. And they’d stood there, the light from one of his stars streaming in and illuminating this patch of color in Aziraphale’s field, next to the forest, and he’d felt a catch in his throat at the beauty, a new kind of beauty. Aziraphale reached out, his hand moving toward Cadamiel as Cadamiel held himself still so as not to startle him, and felt his soft fingers trailing over the angel of Cadamiel’s jaw. So careful, as if he could hurt him. Cadamiel turned to look at the Principality, who drew back immedately.

“I do forget myself with you,” Aziraphale said, looking at Cadamiel through fluttering eyelashes again.

“I like you forgetting yourself,” he’d said. And he’d stepped closer, and embraced Aziraphale, encircling them both with his wings, and Aziraphale had returned the embrace with such ferocity that they’d toppled over into the flowers, Cadamiel laughing with surprise. Aziraphale’s hand had landed on his wing, and his fingers slid into the feathers. He hadn’t noticed it, not really; it had been so innocent, but then they’d started to move, to thread through them—it was nothing like the cold, clinical grooming in the second choir—and he’d gasped and whispered, “Better not.” Aziraphale stilled, then started to stand up, looking chastened, but Cadamiel caught his hand and pulled him back down.

“It’s all right,” he said, and when he spoke again, he had to force the words out, but he _ had _ to say them. His voice came out ragged, whisper soft, “I wish we could. Yours look so soft.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I could...put them around us,” he said, his smile uncertain. “It was lovely when you did.”

“I think that would be nice.”

Aziraphale smiled, and Cadamiel pulled him close, guiding Aziraphale’s head to rest on his shoulder as they knelt in the circle of the Principality’s gleaming wings.

***

Cadamiel finds Lucifer in a clearing in the forest. He’s working, ostensibly, but it isn’t clear what on. There are scrolls, and he’s writing, but when Cadamiel approaches, Lucifer rolls it up and puts it away, out of being.

“What’s that?” he says. Lucifer smirks a little, but doesn’t answer.

“That’s not why you came here.”

“No, it...it isn’t.”

“So, then?” Lucifer twists his body from sitting to sprawling, lolling his head so his dark hair trails on the ground and Cadamiel thinks of his hair trailing in Aziraphale’s flowers and feels that tight fullness in his chest again.

“I wanted to ask you...what do you know about the Principalities?”

“Not much. Nothing, really. That’s more Michael’s domain. And yours, apparently?”

Cadamiel, inexplicably, feels his face heat.

“People _ are _ talking,” Lucifer says. “You spend _ all _ of your time with him when you’re not working. Even _ I _haven’t seen you for a while now. And I heard you took him with you to make stars.”

“I don’t know how anyone even knows about that,” Cadamiel says. He leans back against a tree.

“Stardust on him, flowers on you…” Lucifer shrugs. “It’s not hard. Are his wings as soft as they look? Yours look good...he must have some skill.”

Cadamiel’s eyes go wide. “We don’t—I wouldn’t do _ that_,” he says. “Michael would—well, whatever she did, it would be worse for him.” He’s reacting too openly now, but he can’t help it. The thought of doing anything that would put Aziraphale in the way of Michael’s ire is too much for him.

Lucifer smirks. “And you wouldn’t want that,” he says softly. Cadamiel looks up at him.

“Lucifer. I...I don’t know what I’m doing with him.”

“Then stop. If it bothers you. If it’s so confusing. He’s only a principality. _ Third _ choir. And he doesn’t even groom you.” He thinks of the angel’s hand in his feathers that day. He would have done, if Cadamiel had let him. The thought fills him with shame.

“I wouldn’t ever let him do that. But I can’t stop. I can’t.” He shakes his head rapidly. Lucifer looks amused, but he feels like there’s a hook inside of him, pulling him, readjusting everything inside of him, everything he is, to make room for Aziraphale, and now, like it had that day in the glade, it overwhelms him until it almost hurts. “I love him,” he says, but that doesn’t seem like enough, and he frowns, not knowing how to express this properly.

“Of course you do,” Lucifer drawls, and he looks almost as confused as Cadamiel. “So do I. As I love you. And you me.”

“No,” Cadamiel whispers, but he doesn’t say more.

They’re silent for a moment, and then Lucifer says, “If I were you, I would talk to the Almighty. I don’t know any more about the Principalities than anybody else. And your little...Azi—Azira— whatever—hasn’t _ told _ you about the plan for him?”

“He doesn’t know,” Cadamiel says. “He says that none of them do, the Principalities. No one knows what they’re _ for _ besides eventually guarding the earth, and, well, all of these _ experiments_.” He gestures at the forest around them.

Lucifer rolls himself to a sitting position again.

“Do you _ like _these experiments?” he says, looking down at the grass beneath him.

“Oh, God, _ yes_,” Cadamiel says. “Gorgeous stuff. Did you see the flowers? Aziraphale made—”

“Everyone saw his flowers,” Lucifer says. “They were in your hair.”

They’re silent a moment, and Cadamiel wants to ask if Lucifer is angry with him, if his association with the Principality bothers Lucifer in some way.

“Ask the Almighty,” Lucifer repeats. “Ask Her, and...tell Her...what it means to you.” There is something in Lucifer’s gaze that Cadamiel doesn’t like. He feels this conversation has been a mistake. But talking to the Almighty has never been a mistake, so at least the advice is good. He stands.

“Thank you,” he says. “I will.”

***

She doesn’t answer him. At first. Then she does; she tells him that the Principalities will fight in a battle. She tells him that it’s coming, it’s foreseen. Aziraphale, she says, will wield a flaming sword.

He doesn’t understand. All of these harsh sounding words that have no meanings. He says so. And he feels Her sigh, Her impatience, and he thinks they are done. And he remembers what Lucifer said, to tell Her what this question means to him, to tell Her what Aziraphale means to him, and he opens his mouth to start, and then She is showing him. The battle, swords and fire piercing and burning angels, angels falling, Falling, into a foul-smelling nothingness as if there is no bottom to stop them, and Aziraphale, his sweet angel, who’d filled him with nothing but love, who had touched him so softly and overwhelmed him with his devotion, was wielding the sword, his eyes filled with ferocity and tears, but the real weapon was the Principalities themselves. _ Aziraphale _.

_ No. _ He feels it first, then he says it, then screams it, falling to his knees, his hands clenched.

“No, please. He can’t—he’s _ gentle_, he’s not—he won’t be able—”

She’s still there, still listening.

“Please don’t do this. Not to him. Couldn’t he...couldn’t you make him a Virtue or something?”

“I have made Aziraphale the way he is. Are you suggesting that he be improved?”

“Oh, of course not. No, no. I wouldn’t want him to be_ different_. I just meant—I...I love him.”

“Of course you do. You are angels.”

“No. I...I love him differently. I love him above...above the others. _ More_. More than anything, really. Please, I’ll do anything for—”

More than_ anything_.

Cadamiel realizes his mistake. He feels her leave.

***

It is some time before Cadamiel seeks out the Principality again. Instead, he retreats into his own creation. But even there, he cannot keep Aziraphale from his thoughts. He moves further into the ether than he ever has before, away from anything that has been touched, and begins creating, two stars, orbiting each other; he could not say which of them represents himself and which represents Aziraphale, but he cries as he builds it, remembering the feel of his energy moving through Aziraphale and into the star they’d made together, the fierceness of the Principality’s love he’d felt that day. Did he feel the same for Cadamiel, this overwhelming, dangerous love that eclipsed even their love for the Almighty and her Plan? Cadamiel hoped not (he hoped so, oh how he hoped so).

When he returns, there is a scene, a congregation to which he is summoned, and Lucifer is standing on a dais, the entire host standing around watching. Cadamiel stands in the second choir and sees Aziraphale in the third, looking up at him. He smiles, tries to telegraph to the Principality that he has not abandoned him, and he’s heartened to see Aziraphale smile back, a small, subtle thing, not at all like that first smile (Aziraphale’s first smile!). He relaxes, but it’s too soon, because Michael descends from the first choir, holding a long, heavy sword, and she raises it over her head, and brings it down on Lucifer. He does not fight, only Falls, down and down, into a sudden nothingness, and Cadamiel screams, runs toward him, yelling for his friend to rise, but the other angels of his choir hold him back, and his eyes light on Aziraphale, who is weeping softly, trying to rise and leave. They’re not the only two reacting, but as Cadamiel looks around, he sees only a few other angels being held. Some had screamed; some are weeping; some looking away. But most only watch, and nod, the tears in their eyes present almost as if to weep is their duty. Michael smites three more, Lucifer’s friends, and they Fall, and do not rise again. His stomach twists as he thinks of Aziraphale wielding that sword in the vision the Almighty had shown him.

He cannot find him after the congregation. Instead, he retires to the forest glade where he had sat with Lucifer, and weeps. It is dark here now. And he wonders why, though he can see more stars this way, at least.

“God,” he says. He doesn’t feel her there. “Release him,” he says. “I’ve seen what it is you want him to do. Don’t make him do it.”

And he feels her energy, feels it surge forth into him, and he falls to his knees. She is angry with him. But he does not stop, he weeps and prays, and begs, and when it all fails, he asks why it has to be this way. 

For a long time, there is only silence. He feels Her leave, feels his own aloneness. But then there is a glimmer, and there he is. _ Aziraphale. _

His tears glow. Cadamiel stands, wraps his arms around the Principality, and they weep.

“I know now,” Aziraphale says. His voice is small, meek. “Do you know? Did you? What I’m to...be?”

“I know what you _ are _ ,” Cadamiel says. He longs to tell him about the stars he’s made, the place he made for the two of them, where they can go to hide. But it’s not safe; he sees that now. He only hopes it’s not too late for Aziraphale. “Aziraphale, listen,” he says. “Your orders. Obey them. I know it’s not what you...what you _ are_. It’s not. But whatever the Almighty asks...Don’t question, don’t—”

There’s a rustle of leaves.

“Cadamiel,” says a voice. It’s unfamiliar, and they look around, frowning. A tall, handsome Archangel he hasn’t spoken to before.

“He’s new,” Aziraphale whispers. “_Gabriel_. He led the meeting for the Principalities just now.”

Cadamiel draws away from his warmth. The loss of his touch _ hurts_, but he does not want to invite too much attention to Aziraphale from his new supervisor.

“Michael wants you to come to her,” Gabriel says, his tone officious. “She sent me to bring you to her.” His eyes sweep over Aziraphale, and he looks confused. “You _ are _ the Power Cadamiel, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“I _ see_. Well, come with me, please.” Aziraphale starts to follow, but Gabriel shakes his head. “Stay where you are, Principality.”

It is the last he sees of Aziraphale. Somehow he had known it would be.

Michael does not smite him, instead she and Gabriel lead him to a back stair that he does not remember seeing before.

“You were not part of the official rebellion,” she says. “We acknowledge that you did not know of Lucifer’s plans. But your association with Lucifer, and your _ conduct _ and priorities have made you unworthy of remaining in Heaven. I originally suggested that your _ Principality _ be given the duty of driving you out,” here she pauses, but Cadamiel cannot respond. “But the Almighty denied that request. Said it was _ cruel_.” She does not say anything else, only stands there, and Cadamiel looks around, confused.

“Go,” Gabriel says, nodding to the stairs.

Michael nods.

“But no, I can’t just—” he lunges forward, trying to walk around them. “Aziraphale!” he calls, “Aziraphale!” But the Principality is not there, and the Archangels push him back, crowding him until he’s on the stairs, and there’s nowhere to go but down, into the bubbling, burning, stench that rises to meet him. They shut the door against his screams, and he stumbles, and finally, Falls.

When he resurfaces, it’s Lucifer who pulls him out. His skin is an angry red against Cadamiel’s, and Cadamiel can barely remember his name, or anything else. Distantly, he remembers Heaven, as if it were a long time ago, and Lucifer, and another angel, and the stars. And...oh, it’s all coming back, and he knows now that it’s all cut off to him forever. Lucifer throws him in a corner and laughs when he tries to hold on to him. Hadn’t they been friends? But he’s so angry, like the fire had filled him up, and he crawls to him and punches him, again and again, but Lucifer just laughs.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. “I don’t understand—Lucifer—”

“Satan, now, idiot,” says a buzzing voice. “Stand up and come this way, please.”

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t stand.”

“Then crawl,” the buzzing voice says. And the other four are laughing. All of them except him.


	3. Chapter 3

He sees Aziraphale again, standing on the wall at the Garden of Eden. But Crawly is different now.

Aziraphale is finally, truly, guarding the Earth and its humans. Crawly, the serpent demon, tries not to think of what this means, of the angels Aziraphale must have sent to Hell to join them. There’s a reason he’s never asked any other demon about their Fall. It occured to him when he first spotted him there, on that wall, that Michael had probably sent Aziraphale here to upset him, had probably known Crawly would be sent into the Garden—it was the type of thing she would know, the type of thing she would do. He knows the angels stationed here don't remember the Fallen. But Crawly doesn’t feel things the way Cadamiel had. And though Aziraphale seems a little wary at his approach, he's willing to talk with Crawly, demon though he is. Crawly wonders if Michael is looking down on them in a rage at her failure. He isn’t upset, not really. Just maybe a little more curious than he should be.

When he's sure Aziraphale doesn't remember him, he asks, a little teasing, “Didn’t you have a flaming sword? What happened to it?” He wants to know more about that sword and what Aziraphale has seen since they’d been separated. Terrible things, he knows, and there’s a part of him that wants to know that he, Crawly, isn’t alone in that. Hell has hardened him, dulled him, and he knows he hasn’t a hope of having what they’d had before—he wouldn’t even be capable of it. The flames and the stench of sulphur had filled him up where all that angelic love had been before, and he wonders if he’s capable now of anything but apathy and ire.

But Aziraphale wrings his hands and seems so much like the innocent Principality he had met in the field, studying the grass and worried Cadamiel wouldn’t like his creation, that he softens a little, almost regrets the teasing. When it rains, Aziraphale seems to assume he won’t understand and offers his wing when Crawly stepped closer, uncertain. Surely, he thinks, sheltering there, Michael could not be watching this: it would never be allowed.

***

After Cadamiel was gone, Michael had nodded at Gabriel, and they had rounded up the Principalities. The war began properly, and there were no more trials, only battles. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, and that foolish Principality, Cadamiel’s corrupted little angel, threw down his sword and fell to his knees, weeping. Michael did not warn Gabriel about him, only stood back and watched as he approached the lowly angel.

“What’s wrong? You performed admirably.” Gabriel tried to pull the Principality to his feet, but he jerked out of his grasp as if he found the touch offensive.

“Where is he?” he said.

“Who? The Dominion? The Power, I mean? The one you were with in the glade?” Gabriel’s voice was shocked, as if he were rightly apalled that the Principality would have such gall. Michael smiled. But then Aziraphale spoke.

“_Cadamiel_,” he said, his voice clear and ringing. All in hearing winced, and even Aziraphale must have known what that meant. Michael waited for it, almost giddy, and she wasn’t disappointed: Aziraphale screamed, a piercing, four-voiced thing that rattled the very light. But when he asked why, it was in a small voice that no one heard but her. Michael leaned forward and whispered to him then that no matter how many times he asked, she would overlook it. What she did not explain was that to send him to Hell would only reward the Fallen.

But he wouldn’t stop asking, shouting even at the Almighty herself, though it seemed she’d stopped responding to anyone. He wouldn’t stop saying the name. And finally, she and Gabriel decided to remove their memories, all the memories that the remaining lower angels had of the Fallen. She did Aziraphale’s memory herself in a cold, clinical rage, and Gabriel assembled all the rest to do it more efficiently, he said, accomplishing it with a single wave of his arm. And then, because the sight of Aziraphale made her blanch with contempt, they stationed him on Earth during the Beginning. Michael, satisfied, turned away from her former duties, handing over the administrative work to Gabriel. She would concern herself with other matters.

***

Crowley—he changed it from Crawly before even the time of Jesus, having realized that the name had some unfortunate associations the other demons had been only too happy to use against him—does not often think of Aziraphale. He, like other demons, has the ability to cordon off their time in Heaven so it does not sit with them constantly, does not seem to mean what it might have. It’s as if they’ve lost the sense of continuity with the people they had been as angels. Sometimes, though, Crowley lets his guard down and remembers. Only when alone, only when terribly, horribly alone.

If anyone asked him if he had lain in a field of flowers, laughing and worrying for a younger, less powerful angel, ill-suited to God’s plan for him; if anyone asked him if he had trusted _ Lucifer_, if anyone asked him, if he had once asked God to spare someone because he, Cadamiel, had _ loved _ them, he would deny it. And perhaps it wouldn’t even be a lie. He is, after all, not Cadamiel anymore.

It is only in Rome that Aziraphale becomes _ important _ to him again. Crowley has just come from Caligula. It is not necessary to specify. That is enough, _ Caligula _ . He feels disgusted, his insides, his skin, dirty as he has never felt before, even in Hell, even under Michael’s gaze. And he orders another drink, though he already feels the alcohol (that’s one thing he likes about these _ bodies_, the built-in ability to escape and pleasure them through the use of various substances and kinds of touch) There’s a stirring, something that reminds him of that stirring in that forest glade on that night—that’s what it was, he knows now, that darkness after Lucifer’s Fall—and he looks up, and,

“Oh, Crawly—Crowley? Well! Fancy running into you here!” It’s Aziraphale. And the angel looks so _ happy _ to see him. It’s wrong, he knows, for an angel to approach a demon like this. As wrong as it was for Aziraphale to shelter him from the rain in the Garden. And though he knows he ought to be pleased to have tempted him, pleased to stick it to Michael like this, if nothing else, for some reason, he’s annoyed. He doesn’t _ want _ to think of this fluttering, smiling creature right now, doesn’t want to shift his own mind back into what it has to be to deal with him, to look out for him where he won’t look out for himself, and all while his heart rate quickens, in spite of the dulling effects of drink. It’s too much work. And he doesn’t want to work. Not after Caligula. He just wants to be left alone, where he can pretend there are no expectations of him, no needs he has to meet.

“Still a demon, then?” Aziraphale says, almost disapprovingly, as if it were a choice. Crowley stares at him. He can’t know how that smarts.

“What kind of a stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be? An aardvark?”

But he pours Aziraphale a cup of wine, slides it over to him.

“_Salutaria_,” Aziraphale says, smiling, holding out the cup, and Crowley clinks them together, almost agains his own will.

“In Rome long?” Aziraphale tries again.

Crowley feels a slight twinge of guilt. The angel really shouldn’t be trying this hard, but he is. Trying and failing, perhaps, but Crowley doesn’t want to hurt him. “Just nipped in for a quick temptation,” he says, unwilling to elaborate. “You?”

“I thought I’d go to Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley says, or rather, hears himself say. It’s a request for an invitation, he’s not sure he wants (but he does, he wants it).

“Oh. Well, let me tempt you to—”

Crowley cannot help but lean back in surprise. The Principality always did surprise him, and he feels something twist in him, not a feeling, really, just a memory of the fondness that had once existed between them. If Michael is watching this, indeed. Aziraphale is all blushing stammers, and he feels it again, as he had that first day in the Garden, the softness, creeping back, and Aziraphale says, “Oh! Oh, no, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

He stands and follows Aziraphale out, and then they are eating oysters, and drinking, and laughing. He eats two oysters and then watches the way the angel enjoys his food, a new kind of pleasure blooming through him at the sight. That day-into-night, sometimes he thinks he sees something in Aziraphale’s eyes, a kind of probing curiosity, a kind of desire for _ more _ . That’s all it takes for him to reignite. At one point he rests an inquiring hand on the angel’s arm, just to see if he can (How they’d used to touch, he thinks, remembering suddenly Aziraphale crashing into him in that glade, his creation all around them, that hand in his feathers that he hadn’t wanted to push away—why had he?). Aziraphale has been drinking too, and he’s sated with the oysters. He doesn’t pull away, so Crowley does. _ Best not_, he thinks, not so drunk he forgets he shouldn’t touch an angel. But Aziraphale is different now, Crowley realizes. But it’s good. Crowley is different, too. So different. And after that, Crowley can’t get the angel out of his head. He supposes he never really did.

  



	4. Chapter 4

Michael does not pay much attention to what happens on Earth. That is, after all, why she’d sent Aziraphale there. But occasionally she follows battles and wars. She _ likes _ fighting, likes seeing the innovation the humans make in the realm of righteous battle. When Sandalphon, formerly a human, is elevated to Archangelic status, she trains him herself, taking him down to Sodom and showing him how to wield a sword, how to smite demons, wicked humans, and he’s a bit shaky at first, but he takes to it, and she’s pleased, rewards him with favors, pressing gold into his skin in a style the other Archangels quickly adopt. She makes a recommendation to Gabriel that he keep him close—Gabriel is not often physically inclined, but Sandalphon can compensate, and the two of them together, she tells Gabriel, will be a powerhouse, the way she had been when she’d run things herself.

“And when,” he says, “do you think you might be interested in resuming—”

“I have other duties now,” she says. But she doesn’t explain herself. She never has, and she certainly will not start now.

***

When King Arthur rises to power, she directs Gabriel to get Aziraphale involved with this round-table business. She watches the whole thing closely until it comes down to one thing: Aziraphale repeatedly thwarting a knight, the same knight, over and over again.

“Who is this Black Knight?” she demands, storming into Gabriel’s office. Sandalphon, in the corner, looks around at her, instantly alert, but Gabriel barely glances up from his papers.

“Well, he’s actually a demon,” Gabriel said. And now he does meet her eyes, looking satisfied. “But Aziraphale is doing quite well. Holding his own.”

Michael brushes the comment aside. Does he really think she wants to hear about _ Aziraphale_?

“What demon?”

“Unknown. As of yet.”

“Find out,” she says. “And tell Aziraphale he has authorization to smite.”

In his corner, Sandalphon smiles.

***

“Crawly?” Aziraphale says. And Crowley opens his helm. He’d heard, of course, of the deeds of the Knight Aziraphale. Had thrown himself into the assignment with unusual vigor, for the chance to see the angel again. And now he’s here. Crowley has what he wants. For the moment, he ought to be able to slow down. But he hadn’t really thought about what he’d do when the angel was standing in front of him. So instead, he hears words coming from his mouth. Pouring out. Things he hasn’t planned. Things he knows Aziraphale will never agree to. Saying anything, anything, to see him again.

“We are not having this conversation! Not another word,” Aziraphale says. It sounded too much like a temptation, he realizes. But he hadn’t meant it that way.

“Right,” Crowley says, defeated.

“Right,” Aziraphale rejoins, turning a little to look at him as he heads back to his horse.

Oh. So, perhaps not so defeated after all.

***

“The demon Crowley,” Sandalphon says, approaching Michael as she sits in her corner of light. She has resisted the trend of offices; though she has an administrative mind, all this bureaucracy and red tape just isn’t how she thinks. Her skills are more...intuitive. She frowns at Sandalphon until he continues.

“Formerly Crawly, the Serpent of Eden. Formerly a Power of Heaven: one Cadamiel.” 

“_Crowley_,” she says. “Thank you, Sandalphon.” Since _ Eden_, she thinks, grimacing, biting back rage.

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

“Michael?”

“Is there a reason you know of that Aziraphale hasn’t smited this _d__emon Crowley_?”

“Well, Aziraphale...he’s not...that is...I imagine he just didn’t think it was needed. Wrong, of course. You remember him at Gomorrah. How we had to send him along—useless, he was.”

“Wrong, indeed.” Michael sighs. “And useless. Tell Gabriel I have _ thoughts_. I think we need to pull Aziraphale out of there. I have reasons for my concern. My thinking is that perhaps I ought to replace him. My thinking is that we need to take care of this _d__emon Crowley _ once and for all. He’s being a little too _ persistent _ for my liking. I’m...concerned about Aziraphale.” The words taste foul in her mouth. But it’s true, in a way: She _ doesn’t _ want Crowley to tempt him; she _ doesn’t _ want him to Fall.

***

Heaven moves slowly, with the red tape. And then there’s the matter of time applying on earth and not in heaven. By the time they’ve organized it: a commendation for Aziraphale at Gabriel’s insistence, and the possiblity of her replacing him (Gabriel insists they need further authorization on that, since she’s an Archangel, and the logical choice for his replacement would be another Principality), it’s much, much later, and the days of Knights are all but forgotten.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, almost proudly, “is opening a bookshop. Now, that’s commitment. He does deserve a reward, Michael. I think we should give him his own platoon!”

***

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hisses. “_Crowley. _”

Crowley rounds the corner, sees Aziraphale standing outside of his bookshop’s back entrance, glancing around frantically until he sees him. Aziraphale beckons. He had seemed so happy about this opening, but now he only looks sad and worried. Crowley wonders what it was Gabriel and that short, angry-looking angel had said to him.

“What on earth was that, angel?” he asks, thwacking the box of chocolates absently against his hand, rattling the bouquet he’s got loosely grasped between two fingers.

“_Gabriel_. And Sandalphon,” Aziraphale says. “They want me to...come back to Heaven. They want to...replace me.”

Crowley freezes. He studies Aziraphale, whose face is almost beseeching, like there’s something he wants Crowley to know, without having to be told. Crowley racks his brain, but he can’t think what it could be.

“Well,” he says, finally. “I know that’s probably not what you want…”

“No, of course not. I’ve...well, I’ve just opened my _ bookshop_. And they don’t understand about, well, about any of...that.”

“No,” Crowley says, “I don’t suppose they do.” He thwacks the chocolates against his hand again, rattling the flowers, then sighs. “I don’t want you replaced, either. I’m not eager to find myself confronted by…”

“Smiting,” Aziraphale says, his voice like a sigh. “Perhaps...perhaps then, you’d better clear out of London.”

He spoke so quietly Crowley wasn’t sure he’d heard him. He hands Aziraphale the chocolates and flowers, careful not to brush his fingers against the angel’s—the touch always sends his thoughts back to Heaven, and right now he needs to keep his mind clear.

“For you, angel, in honor of the _ bookshop_,” he says, reassuring. “Just leave it to me.” Aziraphale stares as if disbelieving. He does that sometimes, when Crowley is kind, and Crowley pushes away the way it makes him feel. He _ knows _ he isn’t meant to protect an angel, to care for one at all, let alone in a way that makes him soft and tender. He _ knows_, but Aziraphale isn’t just an angel, not to him.

“Crowley, oh, _ please _ don’t try to—they’re not all like me! I wasn’t joking about the smiting—they said they might send Michael!”

Crowley freezes.

“Did they say _ why _ they’re sending an Archangel?”

Aziraphale frowns. “No. I try not to...question…”

Crowley swallows. If Michael is up to something… well, it’s taken her long enough. This means nothing, he decides. He won’t let it. “Look, Aziraphale, I know what your lot are like. You’re not the only angel I’ve ever met, you know? I’ll sort you out. Better this than I get stuck down here with one of them, anyway,” he says.

Aziraphale blushes, and won’t meet his eye. Crowley is glad. The dark glasses can only hide so much, and he can’t stand it when Aziraphale is like this, soft and in need of his protection, and so very, very caring.

“Don’t...worry about me,” he adds.

“I wasn’t,” Aziraphale says, taking a step back, as if catching himself. Crowley does not dignify this with a response. The angel gets this way sometimes when Crowley calls attention to their friendship. Best to just ignore it. Aziraphale always comes around eventually. He’ll probably ask Crowley to dinner once it’s all settled and the other angels have gone.

When Gabriel and Sandalphon return to the bookshop, it’s not to collect Aziraphale. It’s to tell him that he will stay.

Outside the bookshop, Crowley sighs with relief as they walk away and pass out of sight. He gives them a minute, then walks through the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop for the first time.

***

When Sandalphon and Gabriel return to Heaven, Michael is waiting for them.

“Well?” she says, eagerly. “I spoke with the Metatron, and there is no objection to my taking up residence on the Earth.”

Gabriel shakes his head. “No. Aziraphale stays,” he says. “The Demon Crowley was planning something dastardly, and Aziraphale thwarted him even as we watched. I’ve no idea how. How do things work down there? But he was quite thwarted. No, the Demon Crowley cannot defeat him. I think there’s a system at work there, and it _ works_. Get it?”

Michael frowns, but Sandalphon laughs. “Good one,” he says.

Gabriel grins at him, but when he looks at Michael, he’s serious. “So, for now, I’m going to say we’d better leave it alone.”

Michael lets herself sigh, lets her frown deepen, but it is not enough. The anger that provoked it only seems to grow.

“Gabriel,” she begins. Then she looks at Sandalphon, as ever, at his side. Short, squat, formerly human Sandalphon, who never knew a world where Crowley was an angel. Never knew a world where he and Aziraphale had shocked all of Heaven with what they’d called _ love _, a perversion of all the Almighty had made them capable of. She doesn’t want to taint his mind with the knowledge.

“Leave us,” she says. Gabriel nods at him, and Sandalphon goes.

“Gabriel,” she repeats. “Do you understand what is happening?”

“Do you?” Gabriel whispers. “Listen. I remember _ Cadamiel_. But Aziraphale doesn’t! You made sure of that one personally.” Gabriel is looking at her as if she is stupid, and it makes her angrier still.

“Obviously. But Crowley remembers. And he will use him to get back at us.”

“Get _ back _ at us?”

“You weren’t here in those days. He never cared for me, and now he’s free to hate me, and he does. It’s personal, Gabriel. He will make this angel Fall, and he will do it to spite me. It isn’t as if he _ loves _ him anymore.”

“Oh, Aziraphale isn’t going to Fall, Michael. He’s a good angel, a good _ Principality_, anyway. He’s...done very well. And obviously he doesn’t _ love _ the Demon Crowley. What a thought!” Gabriel laughs, almost a giggle, and Michael wants to hit him.

“It’s disgusting,” she spits. “If Cadamiel corrupted him, don’t you think the Demon Crowley will do much worse?”

Gabriel tilts his head to the side, his violet eyes boring into Michael, and in that moment, she hates him, too. What can he be thinking?

“Aziraphale is strong,” Gabriel says. “I’ve always been satisfied with him. Is this is all just because they’re in the same city?” He lowers his voice, “Let go of this, Michael, or you’ll be the one to Fall.”

***

After the bookshop, it happens more and more: Aziraphale’s blushing smiles, his invitations. Crowley’s heart soars. Aziraphale asks him to dinner now at least every few months. Once he actually _ asks _ Crowley if he needs any help with temptations.

Perhaps, Crowley thinks, he might be allowed to make a further incursion. If they’re going to keep doing this, after all, he really ought to take some precautions. It’s like Aziraphale’s obvious regard for him has made him think, for once, of himself, that perhaps he’s worth protecting. Because _ they _ are. Whatever they are together, it’s worth protecting.

And that’s why he forgets what he knows about how you just have to ignore it when he pretends that there’s nothing there. He forgets it for just a moment, but it’s long enough.

“Fraternizing?” he snaps. He wants to throw it all in Aziraphale’s face, all the times he’s been there to help, all the times he’s ignored the dictates of Hell to help an angel of all things. But he can’t believe he really has to. He really just wants an apology.

But Aziraphale says, “Whatever you wish to call it,” as if he hasn’t said anything he didn’t mean, and suddenly Crowley feels like a fool. Here he is, asking for something that could destroy him, just for the chance to feel a little safer when he spends time with Aziraphale, and all it comes down to for him is _ fraternizing_? Aziraphale can’t mean it, but Crowley’s got to make him acknowledge it.

“I’ve got plenty of other people to _ fraternize _ with, angel,” Crowley says. And the lie of it is why it hurts so much, his lip curling around the words. He’s never had anyone other than Aziraphale. Not really. There’s never been anyone else he fit with; there’s never been anywhere else, besides here on Earth with Aziraphale where he felt he really belonged. And he knows it’s the same for the angel. He still remembers Heaven. “I don’t need you.”

It comes out venomous, in a tone he’d never thought he could use on the angel, and he knows there will be no apology now. He’d spoken like a _ demon, _as Aziraphale has just cruelly reminded him he is. _ He _ should have remembered that. Aziraphale obviously did. So he does what he usually does. When Aziraphale strikes back, he mocks him. Even then, he hopes Aziraphale will stop him, will tell him he hadn't meant it.

But he doesn’t. He walks away. Crowley refuses to look at him. The shock of the depth of his feeling, of his _ folly _ hits him hard.

How could Crowley have let this happen? How could he have thought that all the smiles and sweet looks meant anything from the angel? He probably did that to everyone. Was Crowley so pathetic, so deprived…? He shouldn’t even want those things, shouldn’t need them. Not from anybody; definitely not from an angel.

But Crowley knew what Aziraphale was like when he was afraid. He should have known it was too much to ask for. Crowley goes to the bookshop. He tries. But from where he stands outside, the angel looks sad and tired, none of those bright smiles he’d always worn for Crowley, even in the Bastille with executions happening left and right. _ You did that_, he thinks, _ you put that look on his face. _

So maybe Aziraphale was right. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe it’s another chance at a new beginning, one he should have taken in Eden. He hadn’t had to slither up to him and start this whole thing all over again. He hadn’t had to rest his hand on Aziraphale’s arm, that night in Rome. He hadn’t had to foment unrest, and pretend to be a knight just so they’d send Aziraphale to deal with him. He hadn’t had to propose the Arrangement, or create a scene outside Gabriel’s tailor, just to get the Archangel to let him stay. He should have let them send Michael. If she came now, he would just let her smite him. It was what she’d always wanted, and maybe it was what he deserved.

Crowley goes back home without speaking to the angel. After a month or so—Crowley’s not sure, really—he feels exhausted from the slog of it, from the waiting. Even the little temptations and inconveniences he performs around Soho don’t make him feel any better, don’t even seem to attract Aziraphale’s attention. When the six month mark comes, and he hasn’t heard from the angel, he wakes up one morning and doesn’t bother to get out of his bed. The next morning he doesn’t bother to wake.

When he does, there’s a kind of stunning clarity. He’d dreamt of Aziraphale. All those little moments he’d regretted. And he remembered Aziraphale’s face in those moments, so soft and happy, and so open. Crowley hadn’t been a fool to think something was there. Aziraphale had always seen him, really seen him. And he’d been so sad after they’d fought. What was wrong with Crowley? Why couldn’t he have just remembered to ignore it? Aziraphale was _ afraid._ Crowley’s request had frightened him. He’d been concerned for Crowley, and, yes, worried about Heaven and what they’d say, because of course he was. That was just the way it went; the way it had to be. Crowley usually ignored it, usually met it with sarcasm or a teasing smile, but he’d behaved in that moment as if Aziraphale could have known what he’d been thinking, as if Aziraphale would just say, “Oh, yes, of course. Got to protect yourself against Hell. Here you are, then. One vial of holy water. Did I say one—oh, no, my dear boy. Take as many as you need. Pip pip!”

Of course he hadn’t said that. Of course his mind had raced to picture Crowley, dead because of a friendship Aziraphale couldn’t even let himself acknowledge. He knew how it hurt Crowley because it hurt them both.

Crowley was meant to be the strong one, to protect him. Oh, stir him up a little, tease him, sure. But never hurt him, not even if he hurt Crowley first. And that was just what Crowley had done. He sits, his body stiff. And he knows it has been a long time. When he touches his hair, he finds it dusty and nearly to his waist. Satan in Hell, what must Aziraphale think? Crowley feels a pang of guilt, something that shouldn’t be possible for him (though perhaps the real miracle about Crowley’s guilt at this moment was that it was distinguishable from the vague guilt he felt at almost any given moment). What if Aziraphale believed he’d left, or that Crowley was off somewhere avoiding him? What if Aziraphale blamed himself? What if he _ worried _ for him while he’d been gone? Crowley smacks a hand against his face. _ Of course _ Aziraphale had worried for him. He had to find the angel. Make it up to him. There had never been any real question of a new beginning—not one without his best friend.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale claims to have located the Antichrist. Maybe Gabriel had been right about him. A good angel...perhaps. Perhaps the corruption had left him untouched when they’d cleansed his memory. At any rate, it hadn’t been his _ fault_, she reminded herself. He’d been new, low-ranking. Unable to resist a Power even Lucifer coveted. However inexplicably.

She measures her words carefully when she speaks. She tells him that they will be merciful. She makes it clear that they will not avoid this war. No, after so many thousands of years, she’s truly exhilarated again. There haven’t been the same opportunities for battle since the Great Fall, and now, finally, she will be in her element once more.

But Aziraphale...for a former warrior, for the head of a platoon in the coming war, his response is not heartening. He has always been so disappointing. And then, a few years later, he does what he does best. He disappoints.

“It’s about the Antichrist,” he says, standing there, looking as out of place as he always does in Heaven.

“Yes?” Uriel says.

“I think that, um. Well. It’s not impossible, considering all the alternatives, that the other side might have lost track of him.”

“The other side?” Michael says. Aziraphale points downward, as if speaking of Hell is too much for him.

“Lost track of him?” Gabriel repeats. 

Of course, Michael thinks. Of course. How could she not have seen it? The only way Aziraphale could have known any of this was through the demon. They’ve been working together...He’s gotten to him again. It’s just as she’d warned. She zones out when Gabriel is talking, and then Aziraphale speaks again, and she hears it.

“It’s possible that the demon Crowley—a wily adversary,” Aziraphale adds fondly. “Keeps _ me _ on my toes.” Michael frowns. And then he’s babbling again, his usual nonsense. She glances pointedly at Gabriel. And for once, he seems suspicious.

“I don’t trust him,” Sandalphon said later.

Michael nods. 

It’s this that makes her do what she hadn’t done for ages. She checks her email.

Michael has been on a updates list-serv adminstered by Dagon of Hell for centuries. She found a way to hack into their system and quietly add herself, and she only used it for keeping tabs on the demon—in her head she does not specify; there is only one of significance. But it had been a long while since she’d felt the need to check it. After Gabriel’s warning, she had tried to step off, had gone on holiday for a few hundred years to clear her head and come back to this: Aziraphale and the Antichrist… There was truly no rest for the...well, good. But she’s excited, in truth. The chance for battle. The chance to destroy Crowley once and for all and have it sanctioned by Heaven.

Crowley, she sees, was the one selected to deliver the child on Earth. Crowley was the one selected to influence his upbringing. Which will mean that Aziraphale, also attempting to influence his upbringing, is definitely in his orbit. Again. Or is it..._still _? Michael sighs. Is she really expected to believe this is just an innocent coincidence? If she takes this to Gabriel, will he tell her she needs to let go of this, will he tell her to step off? Or will he finally accept the truth?

For now, Michael waits. If this is all Crowley’s doing—and it must be—it will reveal itself. She can only hope that it reveals itself in time. Aziraphale seems to think that they can stop the apocalypse, and _ that is simply not an option_. If he continues on this path, he will Fall. Or worse. Perhaps the demon had put this thought into his head? Perhaps this is something Hell _ wants _ for some reason?

As much as she hates to think of Aziraphale, it might make more sense, she thinks, to narrow her focus onto _ him_, rather than Crowley. She does not have the same kind of access to demonic records, after all (despite her efforts). She doesn’t often use it, as she no longer does much admin, but she has full access to Heaven’s database. Now she logs in and pokes around a bit until she gets the hang of it. Michael is quick with technology, had made the recommendation to Gabriel that they upgrade to tablets and touchscreen phones years ago, and it’s not long before she’s inside Aziraphale’s confidential file, filled with notes he’s sent, reports he’s provided, and a few candid snapshots taken without his knowledge over the years, here only for monitoring, and largely unused. They’d never have been looked at unless there had been a high-level complaint or query. Well, she’s the Archangel Michael. That ought to qualify. 

There are hundreds of photos of Aziraphale over the years. And mixed in, just a smattering of photos of him with the demon, the two of them smiling and laughing together. The smiles on their faces saying everything they were so obviously trying to hide behind the distance they kept between them. It’s the demon’s face that’s most striking. He doesn’t wear an expression of lust or envy or pride. The expression on his face when he looks at Aziraphale would not have been out of place on Cadamiel: open, kind, gentle. So much so that even that fool Aziraphale can see that it’s real. It’s an abomination. It’s everything she’s been afraid of; everything she had known would happen. Her rage floods through her, but she knows it’s calm that she needs now. Now, finally, _ here _ is everything she needs. Everything she needs to make a case to Gabriel. She prints a few of the photos and goes to him at once, laying them out for him. She could have picked a better few, she thinks, and is about to say so when Gabriel speaks.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation,” Gabriel says. Michael suppresses an outburst. There’s hope and then there’s overt manipulation, which you should _ not _ try to use on your superior. And Aziraphale is long past hope. Out loud, though, Michael agrees with him; her response coming out a bit sarcastic. She reminds herself to tread carefully.

“Are you OK with me following this up in back channels?” she asks.

But now Gabriel frowns at her. “There are no back channels, Michael,” he says. She tries not to roll her eyes. Really, he can be so willfully ignorant.

***

She’s got to find someone sympathetic. But there’s a lot of anti-Crowley sentiment on the list-serv. It shouldn’t be difficult. She finds phone numbers for Ligur and Hastur, Dukes of Hell, and of course she calls Dagon, Lord of the Files, who she already knows. They all claim to hate him. Ligur oozes with eagerness, at her news, says he’ll find him and take care of him. Dagon promises to add the information to his file and convey it to Beelzebub. Michael thinks about telling her she doesn’t need to know the intricacies of Hell’s inner workings, but it’s been useful having that connection, so she doesn’t.

The sad truth is that she can’t see to Crowley directly. Her only legitimate business is with that pathetic Aziraphale. When she shows the pictures on her tablet to Uriel and Sandalphon, they respond as Gabriel had not. 

“That's _disgusting_,” Uriel says. “It almost looks like Aziraphale and that demon—” but she can’t seem to bring herself to say it.

“Shall I bring my sword?” Sandalphon offers, and Michael has to tell him no. Gabriel hadn’t authorized any smiting at this stage, and Aziraphale is his direct report.

Well, then. If she can’t join the gang going after Crowley, she can assemble her own and go after the Principality. Intimidate him a little. Let him know they’re on to him. At least it’s something to do, somewhere to channel her frustration.

She doesn’t touch him; she stands back and lets the others do it. It’s better this way, she thinks, satisfied when Sandalphon punches him, when Uriel tells him that he’s ridiculous and mocks Crowley, calls him Aziraphale’s boyfriend. He doesn’t deny it.

And if she has any lingering guilt after they rough him up, she tells herself that it’s too late for him anyway. Armageddon is here. Either he fights with Heaven and sees Crowley destroyed by his own side, or he Falls and is left alone in Hell when she kills Crowley. If she had to choose, she’d choose the latter option. It would get him out of her way. And he’d make a terrible demon.

And then there’s the horn. Michael feels a sense of rapture. It’s begun.

***

Michael stands at the head of the Army of Heaven, the entire host—even Aziraphale must be in there somewhere, if he’s made the right decision. He’s been discorporated, she knows (had learned with glee), and had returned to Heaven, or so it had said in his file. Now they all stand, waiting for the order, Michael searching for his face. Perhaps she will dispatch his platoon to destroy the demon Crowley in battle. But then Gabriel raises a hand, and closes his eyes, as if he is listening.

  
“Stand down,” he says. “Wait.” He turns to her, and she expects an explanation, but instead, he disappears.

They wait. Michael feels it, the moment it happens: It stops.

The energy that’s been building, the destructive force, the Call to Battle, the Rapture—for her a sensation because it’s everything she is—it stops. She presses a hand to her chest, trying to still herself, feels the others sag as if they’d been pulled taut, then let go.

Then Gabriel is back. But he only confirms what Michael knows.

She retreats to her corner. She builds walls of light around her; she tries _ breathing_, like the humans do, when something has upset them.

***

Dagon had learned that Michael was on the list-serv almost as soon as she’d hacked her way on to it, and had left her on. It was something. Michael had been grateful, and when Dagon finally emailed her to ask about it (much more polite than she would have expected, from a demon), Michael told her she just wanted to see about the demon Crowley, told her she’d always hated him. And Dagon had laughed and said that angels didn’t hate, and Michael had laughed and affirmed that of course they didn’t. “I misspoke,” she’d written. “It was only an angelic rivalry of sorts.” And Dagon had laughed.

She thinks Dagon would meet her, would hear what she has to say. She emails to arrange it. Dagon accepts.

What she doesn’t expect is for Dagon to have so much of her own to reveal.

“Your demon,” Dagon says, entering the elevator, “has killed another demon. We want to exterminate him.”

_ (“If Aziraphale is working with Crowley,” Gabriel had said. “We ought to cast him out.” _

_ “No, Gabriel! Don’t you understand even the most basic—?” Michael sighed, got herself under control. “Even if he went to Hell, it would only reward the demon. The demon Crowley loves—” _

_ “Michael! For the last time: Demons. Cannot. Love.” _

_ Michael sighed. She reminded herself that Gabriel was hardly there to see Cadamiel as an angel, did not really understand what had happened with him and Aziraphale, how odd and unprecedented it was. And Gabriel had not seen what she had in the photos. Even when he finally saw the rest of them, he insisted that what they showed was temptation, corruption, something the demon was _ doing _ to Aziraphale, not something that he _ felt _ . But Michael knew better, even though she knew she shouldn’t care: either way, Crowley must not win. _

_ “Hell wouldn’t even have Aziraphale,” she tried. “Not now.” And it’s true. But it’s not what she cares about. _

_ Gabriel considered this, tilting his head and pulling his mouth in that sanctimonious way he has. _

_ “If we cast him out,” Michael said. “Hell will kill him. It’s the same, then, as if we just did it ourselves. But without the same kind of reward. This way, Hell will owe us.” _

_ “But—” _

_ “Back channels, Gabriel,” and Michael had smiled.) _

“I’m happy to help,” Michael says, smiling. Much easier talking to Dagon than Gabriel, she thinks. “Perhaps we can arrange a trade.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but a little violent.

For the first time in more than six thousand years, Crowley arrives in Heaven. He’s bound and gagged, and the heart in his chest, Aziraphale’s heart, Aziraphale’s chest, pounds with fear. Not of the place, not of Gabriel and his tailored suits, or Sandalphon and his thuggery, or Uriel and her cold logic and pity—Michael, he notices, is conspicuously absent. No, his fear isn’t for them, but for Aziraphale. The truth is, this is one of the rare moments he feels as wicked as a demon is supposed to be. Aziraphale had been hit over the head with a crowbar, and dragged to Hell for _ him_. It was Crowley’s body, Crowley’s bludgeoned head, but Aziraphale’s suffering. And Crowley had _ allowed _ it, hadn’t done everything in his power to stop it because he knew they had to go through with this. He doesn’t let himself think about the possiblity that the angel might not return to Earth.

Of course, he’s here in Aziraphale’s place. And perhaps...that’s all there is, really, the perhaps. But Crowley has learned that a lot can come from hope, and so he hopes. He hopes that this will go the way they expected, that Hell will try to punish him with holy water, as he’d done to Ligur, that Heaven will—well, he doesn’t care what Heaven does to him. They’ve already done their worst. It’s only Aziraphale he worries for. And though he tries to tell himself it’s not so, he knows Aziraphale needs him, and he’s determined to do whatever he has to, just to get through this and back to the angel. Aziraphale, he reminds himself, as their soft, cold hands manhandle him, as they force him to walk into Hellfire, Aziraphale is the only angel who counts.

***

Michael is giddy. She’s almost more excited than she had been when she’d thought Armageddon was finally upon them. And this time, there isn’t the happiness to be worked against, the height of hope that frightens by implying a long fall in the case of failure. Because this plan—it cannot fail.

So at the appointed hour, Michael, with the blessing and protection of Heaven upon her, descends the stairs into Hell, holding a pitcher of holy water. It is time for the demon to die.

It has been a long time since she has seen him, except for in the photographs. His hair is short now, and darker than it had been in Heaven, and he wears his clothing tight, as if he inexplicably wants to show off all the long lines and angles of his body. And his eyes—those she had not seen since his Fall, and they make a disturbing sight; they must warn anyone with any sense at all away from him at least. And Michael cannot suppress a smile at the thought that it explains why Aziraphale had been drawn in—he had never been anything but foolish. Michael pours the water and smiles, but she will not stand and be insulted in his presence, so when Hastur calls her _ wank wings_, she decides. She pours the holy water and leaves. It will be enough, she thinks, to hear his screams as he disintegrates.

But nothing happens. Oh, she hears the first demon, the unlucky tester, as he dies. She hears the splashing, the other demons shouting and gasping, but this is not what she wants to hear; this is not what matters. She takes the stairs back up, to kill the time, moving slowly, listening for the screams. But there isn’t anything. Finally, she can take it no longer, and takes the elevator back down, and he’s there, he’s sitting in it, wet and alive, as if he’d been born anew. He looks at her with the kind of lascivious smirk she’d expect from a demon and says, “I think, in future it would be better for everyone if I were to be left alone in future, don’t you?” And for a moment, she’s struck by it, frightened into a nod. It’s as if someone is standing over her with a sword, as if it’s been hovering there, in wait, and she’s only just spotted it now it’s too late to run. Perhaps God is displeased with her. Perhaps, as Gabriel will say to her later, God has only ever wanted the Earthbound angel and demon left alone, left to each other, even, and now—well, now, what else is there to do but leave them to it?

But as she ascends back to Heaven, she shakes with rage. Why hadn’t she simply crushed his skull against the bathtub? He’d looked fragile. He might have discorporated at least, might have had to stay there in Hell, where it’s clear he doesn’t fit in, just as he never had in Heaven. After all, it isn’t as if they’d issue him a new body.

Aziraphale, Gabriel tries to tell her, when she roars back up from Hell, had not died. But how can she be expected to care about that, when _ Crowley_, the demon…

Wait. She pauses in the middle of her rant about Crowley.

“What do you mean, Aziraphale didn’t die?” she says. “He got a new body from the _ Antichrist_, and Nimael said he _ possessed _ someone, and now you’re telling me he didn’t die? In _ Hellfire_?”

“Yes!” Gabriel says, and he sounds like the matter is of mild academic interest when he continues: “I don’t think we even know what he _ is _ anymore! What _ either _of them are, really. The Almighty must have a new plan for—”

“But if he didn’t die, then where is he?”

“On Earth, I think. We let him go. We didn’t think we ought to inter—”

“With the _ demon!?!” _Michael shrieks, and Gabriel draws away. She tears through heaven, wings out and knocking into other angels. She flies to her corner, builds again the walls of light, and rages. For days, no one sees her.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley and Aziraphale meet after, at St. James. Crowley takes his hand. It is, he reflects, the third time in two days that Aziraphale has permitted him this, even if two of the times were pure utility. The swap is easy, so easy that Crowley wonders if he should have let Aziraphale possess him the day before instead of involving that ridiculous human woman. There _ can’t _ have been anything prohibitive about it, not when they’ve gotten away with this.

And it feels good to Crowley that they’ve gotten away with this, that he’s finally shown the angel that no one up there cares anymore. That they can do this, can be...something, can be whatever they are, together. But he knows it’s going to be careful work—Aziraphale must feel he’s lost something, and if Crowley isn’t careful, both of them will lose everything—the only thing they have left: each other.

“I made the Archangel Michael miracle me a towel!” Aziraphale says, all glee. Crowley, who’d been tense, laughs. Even as he registers with a slight shock where Michael had been, that she’d gone down to Hell just to kill him, a new lightness lifts him up from inside—perhaps Aziraphale will be all right. And maybe...

“Ah, they’ll leave us alone...for a bit,” he says. “If you ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing space before the big one.”

“I thought that was the big one,” says Aziraphale. He looks crushed, but Crowley knows he has to press on, has to make sure he really understands.

“No. For my money, the really big one is all of us against all of them.”

Aziraphale frowns. “What? Heaven and Hell against...humanity?”

Crowley doesn’t answer. Doesn’t explain what he meant by _ us _ or _ them _ or where in that dichotomy the two of them fall. It’s still too sensitive, he thinks.

“Right,” he says. “Time to leave the garden. Let me...tempt you to a spot of lunch?”

There’s a flatness in him, along with that new weightlessness, a kind of apathetic security. Because the truth is, he doesn’t expect Aziraphale to agree, doesn’t _ need _ him to. He _ wants _him to, but it doesn’t have the urgency it might have before, when he felt he had to hoard every moment. The angel is alive, his body whole because Crowley had kept it safe, and right now, that makes Crowley happy. And if he’s alarmed Aziraphale with what he just said, he knows he’ll have another chance now, knows that with Heaven and Hell out of the picture for now, there isn’t as much to fight against. So if it’s not now, it’ll be later.

But Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. He wiggles happily and agrees, even uses Crowley’s language: “Temptation accomplished,” he says, as if he’s so glad to give in, to stop pretending. And it hits Crowley then, like a sunbeam emerging from clouds: this is real, this is happening right now. He shoves his hands into his pockets and stands, Aziraphale walking at his side, effervescent as ever, but there’s something missing from him, too, like he’s feeling that same sunbeam, that same ease, and nothing he says or does feels like he’s holding himself back. Crowley has to stop himself from reaching out to grasp his shoulders and examine him, make sure it’s really him. But that’s just it—it’s more him than ever.

***

Crowley walks him back to the bookshop, doesn’t ask, and Aziraphale doesn’t mention it, either, and when they arrive, and Aziraphale opens the door, there is no spoken invitation, just a quiet, “After you,” and the angel excuses himself to find the wine, still chattering away.

Crowley settles himself on the leather sofa, tips his head back and waits. When Aziraphale comes back, though, he’s quiet. He pours the wine into two glasses and walks toward Crowley, but instead of handing him the glass, he hesitates. Then he turns away again, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Angel?” Crowley says. “Angel—?”

Aziraphale sets the glasses down on his desk and faces him.

“Crowley,” he says. He smiles, clearly forcing it, and Crowley feels a stab of alarm. “Crowley, my dear. I really don’t know how to begin. It’s just—” And now Aziraphale does smile really, but it’s a sad thing, fretful and hesitant, and he remembers that first smile in Heaven and feels absolutely skewered. He realizes his mouth is hanging open a little. “I want to apologize to you.”

“Angel, let’s just _ drink_,” Crowley says, nervous. This is a terrible inversion of the usual order, and not at all the kind of thing he’d expected. “I’m _ sorted_.”

“No. No, I really think I need to say this because...there’s something I…” he’s wringing his hands. Crowley winces at what he’s about to do even before he reaches out, and takes them, holds them still, and Aziraphale stares at them, their hands together, and tugs them away. “Oh, my,” he whispers. He looks down at his own hands as if they’re new, then sinks onto the couch next to Crowley—which he’s never done when they’ve drunk in the bookshop—and doesn’t look at him.

“Aziraphale, _ what_?”

“It’s just that you’re always so...you’re so...well, you’re lovely. And brave, and perhaps you’re not nice, but, well, whatever you say, you’re _ kind _ , and _ good _ , and oh, Crowley, I have nothing but the _ highest _ regard for you, and there’s something I want to try, but only if you’re sure you’re not angry at me, because—”

“I’m not _ angry _ at you. But if you don’t bring the wine—”

Aziraphale turns to face him. “_Please_, Crowley. There’s something I’d like to try. With you, I mean. A kind of experiment.”

Crowley thinks of the grass, thinks of the flowers in the glade, clinging to his hair. 

“All right,” he says. He waits, watching Aziraphale. The angel’s face is resolute, his hand only shaking a little as he reaches out and traces the line of Crowley’s jaw, his touch gentle, barely there, as if he’s afraid he might hurt him. Just like he’d done so long ago, but now it’s different. They’re neither of them so innocent as they had been. Crowley can’t stop his smile, can’t keep the look of appraisal out of it, and Aziraphale pulls back, wincing.

“Well,” Crowley says, a bit disappointed, a bit mocking. “Was that it?” He only means to tease the angel, only means to goad him into showing his true intention, but Aziraphale frowns, and Crowley realizes the angel is trembling.

“Not to your liking then, I expect. Ah. I’m so sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t really know how one does these things. And of course you probably don’t want—” he starts to stand, and Crowley reaches out, grabs his arm, just above the elbow, the soft coat crinking under his grasp. Aziraphale’s eyes fly wide.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and he doesn’t bother to correct himself as he pulls Aziraphale down so he’s almost on his lap. Aziraphale blushes and looks coy, but he doesn’t move away, just tries to keep his balance by holding on to Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley has to keep himself from laughing at the awkwardness—the way it doesn’t even feel awkward at all—as he brings his face to Aziraphale’s, and presses his lips to the angel’s. It’s a kiss that he’s dreamed of as long as he’s had a body, a kind of release he’d longed for since before time, and he can’t suppress a groan at the touch of their mouths on each other. Aziraphale, for all his shock, doesn’t lag, his lips pressing into Crowley’s, their tongues and teeth colliding in the angel’s eagerness, and Crowley brings a hand up into his hair and strokes it, slides his fingers deep into his hair to still him, and makes the kiss lighter, gentler, showing Aziraphale, as if he knows, what to do.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. “And I’ve been just awful.”

“No, angel,” Crowley says. “You were never anything but good. Well, annoying, maybe.” He kisses his lips again. “Bit holier-than-thou...but I don’t hear insults against my best friend.” He kisses him again, then takes his hand and brings it to his lips. Aziraphale looks like he’s going to cry; he’s blinking at Crowley as if he’s some untold wonder, and Crowley can’t look at his face, not directly. It seems like it might burn.

“Now,” he says, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if they don’t stop this. “Will you _ please _ give me some wine?”

***

“Gabriel,” Michael says. She’s standing outside his office. She has tucked her wings away, but it’s his look that makes her realize that it’s been days since she changed her attire, and she’s still wearing what she had been wearing in Hell, and it shows. She shakes her head and miracles fresh attire, but he’s still doing that thing he does, where he blinks a lot.

“Can I _ help _ you, Michael?”

Oh, dear Lord. He might have said _ Aziraphale _, for all the respect in his tone.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“Is there something I can _ do _ for you?”

“Get me the hellfire.”

And he’s cocking his head to the side again, like an old dog. “I don’t know what you mean, Michael. Explain.”

“Gabriel,” Michael says, again. And she can condescend with the best of them—it would do him well to remember that. “_What I mean _ is that I _ want _ the _ hellfire_. The exact hellfire, _ all right_? That you used on Aziraphale. I want that hellfire. Get it for me.”

“Well, I can’t get you the _ exact hellfire_, Michael,” Gabriel says. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Michael has never wanted so badly to smite any angel who isn’t Cadamiel. Not even Aziraphale. She makes fists, but keeps them at her sides.

“Never mind,” she says. “I’m going to Hell anyway. I’ll pick it up.”

***

“What are you up to?” Dagon says, grinning and leaning in. She’s given Michael what she came for. And Michael has to admit that she likes this demon, feels almost as if they could be friends, the way she’d once wanted to be with Uriel, the way she’d been before Cadamiel, with Lucifer. And what does it say for her, if she has more in common now with a demon than with another angel?

“I’m going to destroy Crowley,” she says. “One way or another.”

And Dagon laughs. 

“I didn’t think angels were so funny. At least, not intentionally,” she says.

She doesn’t believe her, and perhaps that’s for the best, Michael thinks, remembering what happened, how scared Hell had been when Crowley had not died, how they’d sworn to leave him alone. She forces a laugh and shakes her head.

“No, no. I shouldn’t...jest. I’m just...going to figure it out,” she says. “How he survived it.”

“And your man?”

“Aziraphale?” Michael says. She wonders why it always comes down to him, despises the feel of the name in her mouth. He’s not a worthy rival. He’s a Principality. Not worth crushing under her shoe. “He’s nobody’s man.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Dagon mutters. Then she shakes her head. “But he survived it, too. The hellfire.”

Michael shakes her head, as if to clear it.

“My only concern with Aziraphale is his relationship to Crowley.”

“_ Well _ ,” says Dagon. “There _ is _ obviously _ something _ there. But I think we’d best leave them to it, don’t you?”

“It’s too disgusting to think of,” Michael says. She hesitates. “Dagon, do you think Crowley...do you think Crowley could _ love_?”

“Don’t say that word,” Dagon says.

***

When Michael returns from Hell, it’s with the holy water from the bathtub—she’d been too angry, too gobsmacked, too disgusted to take it when she’d left, and the demons had been too afraid to try to clear it away. And she’s got some hellfire, too, in a case. Dagon herself procured it, so it must be top notch. When she moves through Heaven, to her corner, the other angels stare at her. And she doesn’t understand it—she’s in fresh clothes. The hellfire is neatly tucked in a case. And she’s the Archangel fucking Michael. They ought to show some respect.

***

There’s a ripple in the energy field she uses to keep her space her own, and she sighs, sets down her sword, which she’d been trying and failing to infuse with hellfire, and turns to the ripple. She steels herself for the comment she knows is coming—there’s a plume of hellfire in the corner, and she can’t put it away. “Enter.”

Uriel steps through.

“My God, Michael,” she says. She nods at the hellfire, its glow glinting off the gold on her skin. “You had better take yourself in hand.”

Michael shrugs. “What was it you came to say?”

“That was it,” Uriel said. “But I had no idea it was this bad.”

***

Michael weeps. She weeps for herself. She hasn’t heard of another angel doing that, but she can see it, can see that she’s not what she ought to be, not what she had been. But surely they have to understand that it’s because of the demon, or whatever he is now that he’s been rejected by Hell. Now that he’s...free. But it’s not weeping at all when it won’t stop, not weeping at all when the tears are hot and angry. It’s not weeping at all, when your response is to take up a sword and a bottle of holy water, and take the escalator down to Earth, and the only thing that returns a smile to your face is the knowledge of your weapons, and the certainty of success.

She has been to Aziraphale’s little bookshop, only the once before, when they’d confronted him just before Armageddon. Michael feels a stab of envy for her former self, for how hopeful she’d felt that day, how assured. It’s nighttime now, and there aren’t many humans out—perhaps they all disappear after dark for some reason? Who knows. She tugs at the door, but the sign reads closed, and there are a lot of complicated instructions for how to arrive when it’s open. She sighs and forces it. There’s no need for her to be as brutal as she is with the door, no need for her to actually damage it, but she doesn’t see why she shouldn’t.

It’s dark in the shop, but there’s a light from the back, the sound of paper rustling. No voices. No _ Crowley_. Damn it. And she does _ not _ want to speak to that damned Principality. She ducks back into the dark night, pressing herself against the outside of the bookshop. A couple pass, holding hands. They don’t seem to see her.

“Hello?” says Aziraphale, from inside. “Who’s there? Gabriel, is that you?”

Michael holds herself still, watching as he runs to the door, still open. “Oh, oh dear,” he says, and she watches as he goes to the phone and dials, “Hello?” he says. “Crowley?” Then, “Oh, dear.” He hangs up and runs from the shop.

If that’s the way he’s going to travel, she thinks, she has time. A quick miracle, and she’ll arrive before he does, get Crowley subdued. It might have been quicker, easier, to dispatch Aziraphale first. But if she’s going to have to discorporate Crowley’s precious angel to get to him, she wants to make the demon watch. She snaps her fingers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end of the chapter.

Crowley is sleeping. His body feels languid and heavy, and he dreams, as he usually does, of Aziraphale, of his weight pressing into the bed, creating warmth and softness beside him, of wrapping himself around the angel and keeping him safe even as he shelters in Aziraphale himself. They have never shared a bed. Over the last few weeks since their lunch at the Ritz, they have not done any more of the angel’s _ experiments_, and Crowley is not sure if they will. At this point, it’s been embraces, some hand-holding, and a few more tender, reverent kisses—much less awkward now they know what they’re doing with it. He thinks of it, sometimes, of suggesting that the angel stay over, but he knows Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. And he’s pretty sure Aziraphale doesn’t like his flat, at least from the way he perched awkwardly on the couch the night the apocalypse hadn’t happened. That could have been because he’d been in Crowley’s body, in Crowley’s tight trousers (which had taken even Crowley some getting used to), or because he’d been tired, or worried, or shaken, or uncertain, or any number of things, but Crowley has chosen to believe that it’s because Aziraphale doesn’t like his flat.

His eyes open, just gradually, and it’s the dim light before morning. He feels an angelic presence, and smiles, opens his mouth to call out for Aziraphale...and then, he sits up. _ No. _Something’s not right. He stands and he’s at the door of his bedroom in a moment, but it won’t open.

“Angel!” he shouts. “Aziraphale!”

“You _ won’t_!” he hears Aziraphale say. And then there’s a terrible crash, a scream that doesn’t sound like Aziraphale. When he tries the door again, it opens like a sigh, and there’s Aziraphale, and something else that looks like a body that vanishes, and there’s a sword and a puddle of water, and, “Stay back, Crowley, stay back!” Aziraphale shouts, as he miracles the water away, then runs at him, his arms around him as he pushes Crowley back and back until they collapse together on the bed. Crowley can feel the distress radiating off the angel, his tears landing on Crowley’s neck, where Aziraphale has buried his head.

“Michael,” Aziraphale says. “She was...she had holy water and the blade she had at Gomorrah. I...had to _ attack _ her, Crowley. I had to.” He’s trembling, his whole body full of sorrow and fear and confusion and—yes, it’s still there; he can still sense it: love. He holds on.

“Shh. Angel, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

“I don’t like doing it,” Aziraphale whispers. “Hurting other angels. _ Smiting _ them.”

“Angel, it’s all right. You just did it to save me.”

“Do you think they’ll come after us now?”

“Shh...no. No. I doubt Heaven set her after _ me_. And she was _ here_, wasn’t she? Not at yours. It’s personal.”

“No...no, I think she came to my bookshop first.” Crowley tightens his grip on the angel. But no, it doesn’t make sense. Holy water wouldn’t hurt Aziraphale. For all Michael knows, it wouldn’t hurt him either.

“When you say _ smiting_…?” he says, pulling back to look at the angel.

“She was careless with her sword,” Aziraphale says.

“You used her _ own _ sword?” Crowley’s eyes go wide, impressed. He wants to laugh, but he knows it’s not the time.

Aziraphale presses his eyes closed. “You saw what she was going to do to you, Crowley!”

“But still...it’s really only smiting if—well, you know.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale sniffs, then gives a long sigh. “I don’t imagine the Archangel Michael will go to Hell on my say-so.”

Crowley kisses his brow, his jaw, his lips, his neck.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Angel, you saved me.”

“There’s something I don’t understand, Crowley.” Aziraphale wiggles free, but stays lying on his side, facing Crowley. “Why did she come _ here _ ? Why was she after you? I was _ at _ my bookshop.”

“Maybe she followed you to get to me. If she doesn’t know my address.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “She couldn’t have. I miracled myself into your bedroom. I was watching you when I heard her come in. She used the door. So I went out to meet her.”

“_Watching _ me?” Crowley nudges him, smirking.

“Crowley! Focus. I...I could sense you were in danger...I suppose it never really felt like the danger was to me. But _ why _ did she do that? And why would you _ think _ she would follow me to you?”

Crowley sighs. “Angel, _ please _ not tonight. Look, you took care of it. It’s not to say I’m not grateful. But things with Michael and me and...things go back a long way.” Aziraphale scrunches his face and looks like he’s going to say something, but Crowley doesn’t let him: “Look, she’s gone now. You took care of me. Let me take care of you.” Crowley leans forward and kisses away Aziraphale’s frown.

“Stay,” he says again, pulling Aziraphale to him.

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley feels him relax and press closer. His heart twists. “As if I’d leave you now,” the angel says.

***

Michael awakens. The floor is cold against her face, and when she opens her eyes, she sees that she’s on the stairwell, the one that leads up to Heaven, down to Hell.

“Hello, Michael,” says a quiet voice, Uriel’s. Michael looks up, and sees her standing there, on the steps above her, with Gabriel and Sandalphon, the latter two blinking at her as if she’s got a lizard on her head like that disgusting demon who’d insulted her. She stands slowly, her form achy and stiff. Uriel looks sad. As Michael stands there, confused, Uriel moves forward and kisses her forehead, then she turns, and heads back up the stairs. The other two don’t follow her. They just stand there, facing Michael, until she tries to go up, and they don’t move.

“Out of my way,” she says.

“Michael,” Gabriel says. He’s using that patronizing, disappointed tone again, the one that only sounds right saying _ Aziraphale_. “You know we can’t do that. We told you to leave them alone. You didn’t. You’ve been wrathful, and prideful, and jealous, and greedy—you must have seen what was happening. You understand why we have to do this. ”

“What are you talking about? I’m _ Michael_.”

“I know who you are,” Gabriel says. “I believe I just said your name. This isn’t a matter of confusion about your identity. Please understand that this comes from a place of love. Love for all of God’s creation.”

“I am the _ highest _ of the angels,” she says, and it’s coming out like a yell. And she tries to calm down, but this is Gabriel and Sandalphon, and she’d seen them both created and trained them, and—there’s a bellow coming out of her now that she can’t control.

“You can’t do this to me. I am the Goddamned Archangel Michael,” she screams. 

Gabriel says, “Oddly apt,” and they push her, their hands on her shoulders. Michael Falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very mild violence.


	9. Chapter 9

But it’s not so bad, Michael finds. She was pushed from only halfway down—her Fall is over quite quickly, and there’s not nearly as much bubbling brimstone and fire to get through as there once had been. When she lands and finds herself broken and small, she flies, flies right out of Hell and back to Earth, ignoring the buzzing voice yelling for her to come and fill out her paperwork.

She’s not what she was. She doesn’t really know what she is until she finds them. The two of them—always the two of them, she thinks—will she never again find Crowley on his own? She knows what she did wrong before. She’d taken holy water, and a blade, thinking to discorporate him if he survived it again, but she’d let her guard down, had assumed she could take on Aziraphale without too much effort. Had assumed she could discorporate him first, make Crowley watch, and then get on with it. She hadn’t known he was already there. He was so fond of doing things the human way, she’d assumed he’d run or walk or take one of those automobiles. And she had underestimated his wrath.

The point is, she had spread herself too thin. Now, she’ll stay focused. If she can discorporate Crowley, he’ll come with her to Hell. And she can deal with him there. She’ll forget about Aziraphale. He is, as he has always been, best forgotten.

She doesn’t know how she finds him, only knows that it’s easier now, in this form. The demonic energy is like a beacon.

And they’re not in London. Instead, they’re sitting in a clearing in some out of the way piece of countryside, somewhere near the ocean. Michael finds she can’t get too close—they must have done something to ensure privacy. They’re on a blanket, and Crowley is _ feeding _ him. She wants to turn away in disgust, but there’s something else happening, something Michael feels that she’s never felt before. Something Michael, a demon now, thinks she understands. Overt temptation. But despite the gluttony, it’s _ Aziraphale _ doing the tempting. And as far as Michael can see, he fails. She flies up and up with glee, as Crowley crumples into himself, pulling away from the angel, and Aziraphale stares at the ground, quivering, apologizing. The dolt. Of course they’d make each other miserable. What had they expected?

As she flies away, happy, she hears it approach—a bat. When it’s closer to her it seems to startle as if it’s made a mistake and no longer wants to be near her. And now she knows what she is.

***

Crowley knew before they came. Aziraphale isn’t exactly subtle, after all. He coaxes Crowley into the Bentley, shoving a picnic basket he seemed to think no one could see into the back, rests a hand on Crowley’s thigh and tells him to drive, without saying where they’re going. His hand edges closer and closer to Crowley’s inseam and he says, as if testing the waters, “I’ve got another experiment in mind. If you’re interested.”

“Anything, angel,” Crowley says. “But I am driving upwards of a hundred and fifty miles per hour here, and I _ don’t _ think we should get ourselves discorporated.”

“No, no, of course.” Aziraphale gives Crowley’s thigh a squeeze before letting it go, then spends the next few minutes shooting him coy looks.

“Just ahead,” Aziraphale says. “There’s a kind of clearing. And I’ve made it so no one can approach.” Crowley slows, pulls the car over, and they walk to it, coming around the trees into something that looks almost straight out of Crowley’s memory of Heaven. He stops then; it hits him rather hard. But Aziraphale is beaming, and that was always enough for Crowley, so he follows him down, helps him spread out the blanket and food, and sips champagne and even eats a macaron or two, feeding the rest of the sweets to Aziraphale and watching him eat.

“You’re very quiet, my dear,” Aziraphale says.

“Am I?”

“Do you know what I have in mind? Is it...do you..._ want _ to?”

“I want to, angel.”

“Oh, good. Do you—no, of course...all right. Lie back.”

Crowley smirks, but he obeys. Aziraphale takes off Crowley’s glasses and sets them aside carefully. The ground under him is soft, and Aziraphale’s fingers wind a flower through his hair before he can object, then he bends over him and kisses him.

It’s good, Crowley tells himself. He feels Aziraphale against him, pressing into him, slowly, gently discarding their clothes, and he pushes off Aziraphale’s waistcoat, his hands fumbling at his suspenders.

“Why do you wear this stuff?” he says, fiddling with the button. Aziraphale grips his hands where they’re shaking.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Course I do.” But what Crowley wants is to please him, and right now, he’s thinking about that flower, he’s thinking about the feel of Aziraphale, hard against his own hardness, his hands reaching beneath Crowley’s hips, his lips, his _ tongue _ on Crowley’s bare chest. Crowley whimpers. It does feel good. But there’s that flower, the flowers, Aziraphale had made the flowers, and they’re on him, and the angel is...the angel doesn’t know…

Crowley wants to pause, to catch his breath, because there’s something not right…and he needs to think, but then, Aziraphale is tugging at his trousers, his hand sliding under the waistband and finding the button, _ no, no, not that_. But he can’t think why, just remembers taking that darling angel’s hand out of his wings all those eons ago and saying, “Better not,” because he’d known it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t right to let him—but this isn’t like that, is it?

Aziraphale is leaning over and whispering.

“On top,” he whispers. “I want you inside of me.”

And Crowley freezes. He presses his eyes closed, because it is, it is exactly like that. Aziraphale doesn’t remember. And he doesn’t even know that there’s anything to remember.

“Angel, angel, stop.” Crowley says. Aziraphale does, his face scrunching with concern, but Crowley turns to the side, away from him, and sits up. “I’m so sorry, angel. I can’t, I can’t.” And he’s _ crying_, and oh, g-somebody, what is Aziraphale going to think? There is no way not to hurt him, not now. _ I should have left him alone_, he thinks. _ But he _ smiled _ at me, and I took that and then I just had to keep taking, right from the start. _ He’d been so innocent then, and if Crowley had just left him alone...and now look where it’s gotten him, isolated, with nobody at all but Crowley for company, and Crowley, of course, can’t satisfy him. Crowley remembers a whole life they’d shared that Aziraphale knows nothing about, and it’s _ exactly _ like it had been—he was lonely and he saw something he wanted, something he had no right to, and he just got as close as he could and he _ touched_, thinking that because he didn’t mean to hurt, he wouldn’t. He’d been a fool. He’d always been a fool.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his voice fearful and pained. There are fingers on his shoulders, but they withdraw, like Aziraphale’s afraid to touch him now. “Oh, I’m so _ sorry_, my dear. Crowley? Please, can you look at me? You don’t have to, of course. Crowley, I didn’t mean—”

Crowley can’t stand this. He reaches out, grabs the angel and holds him. It’s easier than looking at him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “ ’S all me, angel. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s all right,” Aziraphale says. “We don’t have to do that. It’s really not_ necessary_. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“You didn’t push. I...thought I wanted to. I _ did _ want to. It’s just...”

“But I was too excited.”

“No,” Crowley says. “No, it’s just… Aziraphale, there’s something you don’t know.”

Aziraphale frowns. Instantly the both of them are fully clothed again. Crowley adjusts his hair—Aziraphale’s miracle had made it feel flat on his head, as if it had been slicked down. He puts on his sunglasses.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says, his tone gentle. His hand strokes Crowley’s back softly. Crowley pulls back to look at him. He feels hollow. He braces himself, then speaks.

“We knew each other in Heaven.”


	10. Chapter 10

About eight years ago now, on the Dowling estate, Aziraphale had asked him: “What were you, Crowley? In Heaven, I mean?”

It was late at night, and they were drinking in Aziraphale’s little cottage. _ Brother Francis’s _ cottage. And Crowley, not dressed as Nanny Ashtoreth, was sitting on his couch. They’d been talking about Warlock.

“You’re ever so good with him,” Aziraphale had said. And Crowley had glowed with the praise, but then the angel had said _ that_. He’d never mentioned Crowley’s Fall before, had seemed to understand that it was off limits. But they’d been spending more and more time together, and perhaps Aziraphale was feeling the shift he felt as they grew more familiar, the ease and _ comfort _ they felt in each other’s presence, even as they worked to avoid impending doom. Perhaps he, too, felt the pull, the desire, to be closer still. But this...it wasn’t that it made Crowley angry. It was that it _ reminded _ him, of the shared memories they _ didn’t _ have, that they ought to. It reminded him of a closeness that they’d never have, and then, too, of one they’d once had—beautiful and pure and so much simpler—and lost. He didn’t like to think about it, not when things were going well. He went still. After a few moments, he realized the bottle they’d been drinking from had partially refilled, and when the angel spoke again, his voice was sober.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, reaching for Crowley’s hand, and briefly their fingers touched. But Crowley pulled away as if he’d been burned, and left the cabin. He’d didn’t let himself think about that sober touch. Didn’t let himself imagine what questions it might invite, if he did. They had to be _ careful_; they were growing too close when they both knew they were likely under more scrutiny than ever. And if he, Crowley, was hurt, what did it matter, really? What had it ever mattered?

But he’d never been able to resist the angel. Within a week or so, avoiding the angel’s sad gazes as he supervised Warlock’s outdoor play had become too much for him, and when he’d found a potted plant in his room, he’d relented. That night, disguises discarded, they’d drunk together again, but this time under cover of a public pub. They did not speak again of Crowley’s Fall.

Now, in the glade, Aziraphale presses a hand to his mouth. “Did I...smite you?”

“No, angel. I never saw you anything but gentle. Bit...enthusiastic, perhaps,” Crowley smiles at him and takes his hand.

“Did we...like each other, then?”

“We did. We..._liked each other _ a lot. But Michael didn’t think we should spend time together. She already didn’t like me because I hung around with Lucifer. I was second choir,” he says. “A Power.”

“Ah. I see. Michael.” Aziraphale’s voice is almost a whisper when he adds: “Alpha Centauri.”

Crowley gulps. He doesn’t tell him he made it for him; he doesn’t tell him why.

“You did experiments then, too,” Crowley says. He smiles. “You made grass, and daisies.”

“Well, that I remember.”

“You once bowled me over in a glade, something like this place. You just fell over on top of me because we didn’t know how to...contain all of that...” Aziraphale frowns, looks like he’s about to speak, so Crowley gulps. “Love,” Crowley says, forcing the word out. “All of that love. It was special with us, angel. Not like it was with the others, even then. And I had your flowers stuck all over me. And we just laughed and laughed. We were so happy that day...until Michael saw us.”

“Is that when you—?”

“No.” They’re silent for a long time.

“You can’t have known me for very _ long _ in Heaven,” Aziraphale says finally.

Crowley wants to agree, to tell him it was no big thing, so Aziraphale won’t worry over this. But he’s doing this, and it’s not worth it if he’s not going to be honest. He sighs.

“It’s hard to say about anything back then, but it was a good while, angel,” he says. “Long enough that I loved you more than anything. Still do.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide. “More than anything,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can see the pain there, as Aziraphale understands, or thinks he does.

“But that’s not it, either,” he says. “It’s not the reason I Fell. I Fell because I questioned Her Great Plan. Aziraphale, I’d do it again. I couldn’t stand it that she wanted to use you for a War. I told Her she was wrong about you. I told her it was wrong to turn you into a weapon.”

Aziraphale kisses his hand. Crowley feels the angel’s tears land there when he does. There was never any way to make this easy for him.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

“You have to see that it wasn’t your fault, angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer.

“And did I...love you that way? More than anything?”

“I always thought you did. But I never would have asked. I never would have wanted you to risk yourself.”

Aziraphale presses his eyes closed. “I wish I could remember,” he says. Crowley reaches around him, pulls him close.

“I didn’t want you to worry about it,” he says. “That’s all; that’s the only reason I never said. 

“I know. And I do now. For a long time. Love you, I mean. More than anything.”

***

They return to London. Aziraphale doesn’t say it, but he wants space. He buys new first editions and restores them; he even opens his shop. Sometimes Crowley visits the bookshop and afterward stalks around Soho, causing traffic disturbances and other minor inconveniences to distract himself. He sleeps. Sometimes they have dinner, sometimes they drink. Sometimes Aziraphale sleeps at the flat next to Crowley, but sometimes they spend their nights apart. Crowley doesn’t push, doesn’t pull away. He’s trying to strike a balance, trying to say to Aziraphale that he’s there, but not to crowd him. Aziraphale doesn’t mention experiments. When he kisses Crowley, when they sleep beside each other and they touch, he keeps his hands on the outside of his clothes, only touching the skin that’s exposed. Crowley wonders if he ought to wear less, but he doesn’t. Instead, after a few weeks of this, one night in the bookshop when Aziraphale has closed the blinds and kissed him, he moves his hands up to Aziraphale’s bow tie and slowly, gently undoes it. Aziraphale looks down at his hands, hovering at his collar. He doesn’t stop him. His smile is gentle, but unreadable.

“OK?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale reaches up and covers Crowley’s hands with his own. “In a way it is,” he says. “I don’t mind, I mean. I...like your touch. You know that. But I don’t want us to try _ that _ again yet. I’m sorry, my dear.”

“ ’S OK, angel.” Crowley lets go, steps back, but Aziraphale steps forward and takes his hands again.

“But...I was thinking about something,” he said. “Something else we might try. What if...what if you let me see to your wings?”

“And I can see to yours?” The words burst out of Crowley like he’s been waiting to say them, and he supposes he has.

“Yes, of course, if you like. We didn’t do that in Heaven, did we? I can’t imagine that a Power would—”

“No,” Crowley says. “But I wanted to. I mean, I wished we could. We both did.” He can’t shake the instinctive offense at the question—but he’s already tracing his fingers over Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, buried as they are beneath his clothes, already hyperaware of himself in multiple planes. He’s eager, and without any of the hesitancy or confusion he’d felt before.

“And now?” Aziraphale says. “Do you—”

“Yes, angel, _ yes_.”

***

Afterwards, they lie together, their chests bare against each other, wings wrapped around them, and it’s warm bliss. Aziraphale sighs and slides his fingers into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley presses his face into Aziraphale’s neck, smelling his cologne and the sweat of his corporation and that ethereal, heavenly, something. It’s true: his wings _ are _ soft; now his feathers rest on Crowley’s skin, as soft as Aziraphale’s first touch to his face had been, and Crowley is so, so happy to know it. He wants to know everything he can about the angel, about Aziraphale, as he is now. He slides a hand down Aziraphale’s bare skin between them. He’s soft there, too, his skin supple, his flesh generous; the fine, pale hair that Crowley follows with his fingers down his abdomen is sparse and silky.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale says. He wiggles slightly, under Crowley, and Crowley feels himself harden. He stills, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice. He hadn’t intended to escalate things that quickly. He presses his eyes closed, wincing and resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder so Aziraphale can’t see him. But he seems to know, somehow, that Crowley’s frowning, tips his head back and lifts Crowley’s up. He kisses Crowley’s forehead, trails a hand down his back, between his wings, making him shiver and moan. _ Not helping. _ Aziraphale smiles, but it changes from something satisfied to something sad.

“I’m not going to remember,” he says. His voice is resolute, not apologetic, but the way he looks at Crowley is a plea.

“It’s OK, angel,” Crowley says. “It’s OK with me.”

“I do love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “It’s just that...I can _ only _ love you as you are now. But perhaps that’s enough?”

“Of _ course _ that’s enough. That’s the only thing…” Crowley shakes his head. “Oh, angel. That’s the only thing that matters.”

***

Aziraphale doesn’t clean his bookshop the way he ought to, Michael thinks. She’s been here for weeks now, where the two of them spend most of their time, and no one has even noticed. Oh, Crowley puts out his demonic feelers occasionally, or rather, he sniffs the air and frowns. But when he does, she just flies off and comes back later. She’s a very small bat. Small enough to hide in the corner of a bookshelf when necessary. As it is if she wants to shield her eyes from their disgusting wing grooming, which is what they’re doing now. She’d always known they’d done this in Heaven, had known that Lucifer had wanted it of Cadamiel, and Lucifer had always done what he liked, and that was why she’d turned it into such a thing in the first place. It had _ always _ , _ always _ been that you only groomed with your own choir; it was the only way to maintain order and respect and protect the lower orders. And she hadn’t wanted to lose Lucifer… So when they’d made the third choir, she’d made it a rule, had made it formal, so there could be no confusion, even among the new angels.

And later, she’d assumed Cadamiel would make the principality groom him. He _ had _ to want a servant—she hadn’t been able to imagine or understand what other use he’d had for him. After all, he had a ready audience with _ Lucifer_. There was no need to stoop. But he was _ always _ with that Principality. He took him _ everywhere _ , even up into the nothingness when he made the stars, where only the Powers went. It was too much to think there weren’t things they did that they didn’t want people to know about. She’d seen them, the way they separated themselves, even wrapping their wings around the two of them as if shielding their secrets. _ No rule against that, Michael_, Cadamiel would have said, if she’d called him on it. So she hadn’t.

But she can see now that even with her suspicion, she’d been naive. An angel, grooming another angel, whatever their respective stations, would never trouble her as much as this abomination: an angel and a demon—all yellow eyes and black feathers—touching each other like _ equals_, like _ lovers_. She hadn’t known that word then. None of them had. 

And so she hides her eyes, perching in the bookshelf and wondering why the anger she wants won’t come, why it is that instead, she only feels hollow and alone. _ Is this defeat? _ There’s nothing glorious in it all, although she has fought hard. And then she realizes: It’s the love. She can’t feel it, any of it. It’s there in that room, in whatever corrupted, damned form; that much is clear, but _ she can’t feel it_. So perhaps this is what it is to be a demon, she thinks. But not for Crowley. No, not for him.

***

“I am glad,” Aziraphale says, sitting up, his wings sliding back out of sight. “That we did that.” He picks up his shirt, begins his complicated buttoning and tucking and tying. Five layers, Crowley thinks. And it’s not even winter yet.

Crowley doesn’t stand. He stays where he is, lets the angel’s eyes run over him appreciatively before he rolls to one side and sits up, hiding his wings.

“I’ve always been entranced by them, you know,” Aziraphale says. “The color. In heaven, you know, it’s really all a bit dull.”

“It’s a mark of Hell, angel. _ You _ of all things are not meant to be _ entranced _ by it.”

“I’m not meant to be entranced by a lot of things, but...well.” Aziraphale smiles. Crowley laughs. He’s so glad Aziraphale is like this now, accepting of himself, of the things that Heaven would have called flaws. “Your eyes, for instance,” he adds. “Mesmerizing.”

“Well, that is sort of the point of _ them_. Mostly doesn’t work though. More of a warning, I think.”

“It’s always worked on me.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Aziraphale finally puts on his waistcoat, tugs it into place. “I was so honored,” Aziraphale says. “That you trusted me the way you did, right after Armageddon. I was horrible to you, and then, I needed to borrow your body, and you just...let me.”

“Oh, angel—”

“And what a beautiful body it is. I enjoyed wearing it very much. Though the same cannot be said of your attire.”

“Aziraphale—”

And that’s when it happens.


	11. Chapter 11

Michael hears the conversation, but it’s as if it’s happening far away, as if she’s somewhere else—at the bottom of a tunnel, perhaps—where it takes sounds longer to reach her. She hears them, but the information doesn’t make its way through. And then,

“...borrow your body...”

Abomination indeed. Michael’s rage, delayed as it had been, is complete. And for once, it’s directed at the both of them, because Aziraphale..._How dare they?_ _Share bodies?_ _A demon and an angel? And they’d gotten away with it, on top of everything else they’d done? _And Gabriel had scoffed at her. And Sandalphon. Even Dagon had laughed at her...She feels a heat start in her body, and she realizes that right now, this second, she could destroy Aziraphale, and Crowley would watch and rage and cry, but there would be nothing for it. Aziraphale, his...whatever it is he was...would be gone. The heat builds with the rage, and she’s ablaze, a ball of hellfire with wings, and she soars out from the bookshelf, not caring when the pages nearest her ignite, not caring that the flames have drawn their attention, because they are so close that there will be no escaping her.

Crowley’s face goes white with panic. He sees first because he’s on the couch. Aziraphale is leaning against the desk, against the same wall as Michael’s bookshelf, and it takes him a moment; he sees Crowley’s face before he sees her.

“Crowley, what—?” And his eyes grow wide. Michael bares her teeth, sails straight at him, the air hissing along on her burning body. It all feels so good, so right. But she doesn’t hit him, doesn’t hit his downy hair, his fraying vest, all of it begging, she thinks, to be ignited, instead, she thwacks against something dark that refuses to burn, feels a bony hand close around her, dousing her flame. _ Crowley _. She hisses.

“Aziraphale, get out of here!” Crowley shouts.

“My books!”

“It’s hellfire. Forget about the books. Go!”

Michael can’t see him. But what she feels is cold, cold, and she can’t let him do this to her. She sinks her tiny teeth into the hand, but he doesn’t let go. She tastes his blood and spits. “_I know what you did_,” she hisses. “_And you’ll pay. You and your foolish little Principality.” _

His hand tightens and she thinks he will crush her to death. Then he lifts his hand and peers at her. She stares into his snake eyes.

“So you’ve Fallen,” he says. “Archangel Michael no more.” He looks almost amused, and suddenly she’s realizes: she's entirely at his mercy. What will he do to her?

He’s killed other demons, she remembers. And he won’t hesitate to do it again. She’s never been at his mercy before, never felt that he controlled her fate. Michael hasn’t been afraid, not for herself, since the first time since she’d feared losing Lucifer to Cadamiel—no, since she’d tried to douse Crowley in holy water, and he _ hadn’t died._ In those situations—unlike this one—her life hadn't been in danger. But he’s always been the one, she realizes, who scared her, who cowed her, who made her lose control. And she hates him for it. She hates him so much she can feel the hellfire growing inside her again, can feel the pull of Hell, and gives in to it, lets it wrack her tiny bat's body until she thinks it will break. Until the other demon’s hand is not there anymore, or rather, until she’s not in it, but somewhere else entirely. 

When she opens her eyes, in her person-shaped form again, there he is, for the first time in millenia and longer. _ Lucifer. _

***

The demon in his hand vanishes in a pop of smoke, and Crowley extinguishes the rest of the flames with force of will. It’s not hard for a demon to control hellfire, when it’s in manageable quantities. With a little more concentration, he repairs the books, the shelf, the wall. The smell of sulfur lingers in the bookstore. It clings to his hands and clothes. He slumps to the floor and wonders where Aziraphale is. He shakes and gulps breath after breath. Michael had been after him before, and he hadn’t really been surprised, hadn’t even really cared, except for how it had upset Aziraphale. But now she’d attacked the _ angel_. 

_Fuck, no; Aziraphale is entirely off limits. _ Crowley hadn’t thought it was possible. But he should have realized she would Fall, should have realized that she would lose all compunction if she did, not even the bureaucracy and structure of Heaven holding her back. Hell would be glad to see either of them wiped out of existence, he knew. Any angel’s destruction would be celebrated there, and Aziraphale in particular. After all, he couldn’t even Fall because Hell already hated him too much, and Heaven has already tried, and right now, at this moment, Crowley doesn’t want to live in a reality this hostile—not when all of that hostility is directed at Aziraphale. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, slumped against the books.

He hears a rattle at the door, footsteps.

“Crowley?”

He stands and opens his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, as Aziraphale steps into them. “I’m so sorry, angel.”

“What happened?”

“Michael. She Fell. And she’s after us again. I’m so sorry I didn’t—”

“Oh. Oh, my.”

“I guess you really do have the power to smite,” Crowley says, grinning. Aziraphale lets go of him and shakes his head as if to clear it. He wrings his hands.

“She must have been acting without authorization.”

“Well, I told you that.”

“And she’ll try again,” Aziraphale says.

“She’s never going to leave us alone,” Crowley says. “I didn’t think she’d go after you. I didn’t think—”

Aziraphale frowns. “You expected her to come back?”

Crowley doesn’t answer the question. “I didn’t want her to get in our way. We couldn’t let her—”

“But now, because it’s me she tried to kill—”

“Aziraphale. She’s a demon now. There’s nothing stopping her from doing what she wants. They’d be glad if anything happened to either of us. The only thing stopping them from ordering it is fear. But if she heard what we were saying...if she _ tells _ them…”

Aziraphale presses his hand to his mouth and closes his eyes. “If she heard what_ I _ was saying, you mean.”

Crowley hates everything. He takes a long breath; it shudders, but he ignores it.

“I have to go back to Hell.”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale says. “She’s there. No. You know what she’ll do.”

“I’ll talk to them; they might stop her if they still think there’s a threat from me. You took care of that—they agreed to leave us alone. She’s still...acting without authorization.”

“No, Crowley. You can’t. They might change their minds, or lie to you. Or she could just kill you while you’re there. Any of them could. This has always been fragile. It’s like you said before. It’s best we don’t draw attention.”

“Then what, Aziraphale?”

“I don’t know. I…”

“She’s never going to stop,” Crowley repeats. “She’s never going to stop.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on tumblr at leilakalomi.tumblr.com.


	12. Chapter 12

They can’t help but look for her. Fear of her creeps into their moments alone, their moments together, crawls into the spaces between their bodies when they press against each other in the bed of Crowley’s flat. It skitters beneath Crowley’s fingers as he strokes Aziraphale’s chest, nestles in the spaces between Aziraphale’s feathers, or under his fingers in Crowley’s hair.

The love between them is so big that there’s space for the fear to crawl in. Crowley doesn’t want this, this set of cracks in his long-awaited perfection. His weary heart unable to rest, his angel feeling his hesitation in everything, taking the shaking and cringing and yearning onto himself. The days of that are supposed to be behind them.

Crowley never hated Michael before, but he does in the weeks after that day in the bookshop. He does, when he looks at Aziraphale and sees him burning with hellfire. He can hardly stand to go into the bookshop at all.

“Let’s go away,” he says, one night when they’re in his flat, drinking an endless bottle of Chateau LaFite that Aziraphale has brought. And Aziraphale blinks at him. He’s not usually the one to suggest these things, these _ experiments_.

“Away?” Aziraphale says. “Alpha Centauri, perhaps?” he sips his wine primly, as if he weren’t already a little tipsy.

Crowley laughs. “Bastard,” he says, fondly. He rests a hand on Aziraphale’s thigh and moves it back and forth a few times, gives it an gentle squeeze. Soft, like the rest of him. The knowledge twinges through Crowley, fills him with longing. Aziraphale looks down at Crowley’s hand as if he hasn’t done just what Crowley is doing, hasn’t held that hand, hasn’t kissed each finger and felt their touch on his skin. His body shudders a little. Crowley gulps, but he takes his hand away and waits for him to look up before he speaks again.

“South Downs,” he says. “That cottage you rented us before. Where we never stayed. Let’s do that trip again. Let’s...do it properly, this time. With, you know, the experiment and all.” He waits. He can feel his ridiculous heart pounding. He feels he’ll discorporate from shame if Aziraphale says he doesn’t want to, or tells him that he’s still not ready. He knows it hurt Aziraphale before, when he’d stopped him, knows the revelation about Heaven had changed something for the angel, but it’s been a long time since Aziraphale made excuses to spend time away from him. They’re together now as much as they had been before his revelation, their nights almost all in the flat, wrapped around each other, their stupid human bodies begging them for release, and he’s no longer sure what they’re waiting for, besides a confirmation of safety that will never come.

“Are you _ sure_, Crowley?”

“Only if you are, angel.” He gives his head a careless toss and says, “Don’t want to go too fast.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Do you remember everything I’ve ever said?” he says.

“Might do,” Crowley says. He smiles. Aziraphale kisses him, soft and slow, almost shy. He ends it, blushing, looking down like he hasn’t done since that first kiss in the bookshop. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Let’s get properly drunk tonight. I...feel we need to.”

Crowley nods and miracles a bottle of scotch onto the table in front of them. Aziraphale downs his wine and leans forward to pour scotch into what’s now a proper scotch glass. Crowley touches his hand to stop him, and Aziraphale looks up.

“South Downs?” Crowley repeats, because he has to know this.

Aziraphale gives Crowley an indulgent look. “Of course, my dear,” he says, eyelashes fluttering.

***

“Well, well,” Lucifer—Satan says. What _ are _ you going by these days?”

He’s different. His skin is red, and he’s only half dressed in tight, dark trousers like Crowley’s. He’s like a monster, the most monstrous of them all, but perhaps that’s _ good_. She doesn’t find it offputting, more impressive. Michael has no idea what she looks like, only knows that she’s dressed in some kind of black shift, faded and fraying and tight against her pale body. A creature with a buzzing voice had draped it on her when she’d arrived, bored, then faded into the background, rolling her eyes. 

“I never did the paperwork,” she says, keeping her voice even. She never hated Lucifer. She’s not sure if he hates her.

“I know. Do you think all new demons get an audience with me? You can’t just bypass these things. You of all people ought to know that. Once upon a time you knew the name and rank of every angel in Heaven. But it has been a long time. And what have you been up to that’s kept you so busy you couldn’t do the paperwork—haven’t even been in Hell for some time now, if these records are correct?”

“Crowley,” she says. And he seems to understand. He smiles, wide and amused.

“Mmm,” he says, licking his lips. “He was _ extremely _ satisfactory as a demon. Until he wasn’t.” He shrugs. “So I’ve washed my hands of him.” He looks down at his hands, which, like the rest of Hell, do not seem clean. “Metaphorically speaking, of course. I suggest you do the same.”

Michael does not nod or agree. “So you finally got what you wanted from your beautiful fallen angel?” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm and scorn. Though there’s one tiny part of her that wonders what Aziraphale would say to that, if he knew. The Devil himself and that empty-headed angel...what a range of tastes Crowley has. If he’s so indiscriminate, then there must have been others, too. Perhaps there still are. She smiles at the thought of telling Aziraphale, watching him react, seeing Crowley’s face as the angel recoils from him, disgusted and betrayed. But then Satan speaks.

“Oh, on _ that _ level? Not at all,” he says, but he’s smiling, as if recounting a story from long ago. “It was always about that damned Principality with him, as you well know. When I heard you were sending that little Principality to Earth, I sent Crowley, too, for my own amusement. I knew you’d made him forget, you see? Wanted to teach Crowley a lesson about what it means to be Fallen. Backfired _ spectacularly_. That angel is _ twisted_. Even with his gifts, Crowley couldn’t do all that himself—angel and demon, I mean. It’s just not _ done_. But again, I wash my hands of it, you know?” he shrugs, presses long fingers together. “It seems like what we all ought to do. They’ve both been up there too long. We don’t even know what they are anymore. Might be dangerous. I’ve told my people—best to just let them...be.”

“It doesn’t bother you? That he dared to refuse—”

“Oh, he didn’t refuse me _ here_. I never asked him. That was just the one time, in Heaven. Here, I have plenty of demons. They do my bidding. I can have whoever I want. _ Crowley _ doesn’t _ consume _ me. He was never anything special. He was just a talented, pretty little traitor.”

“And me?” she says, the words out before she can think. Her face goes very hot.

Satan frowns. He leans back in his chair, lazily, his hands crossing over his chest. His words had been such a relief, but now she realizes they’d also been a kind of dismissal. After all, if that’s what he thinks, what must he think of everything she’s worked for to bring about Crowley’s downfall? What must he think of her, really? And why had she asked to hear it? She waits another beat, and Satan’s frown vanishes. He’s still reclined in his chair, and now he puts his feet on the desk, banging one heavy leather boot over the other.

“What _ about _you?” Satan says, as if there isn’t anything at all to be said. She can see that he’s said it to hurt. Satan raises his eyebrows, and she realizes he wants her to leave, expects her to do it without being asked. She feels her eyes welling up, so, to her shame, she does, standing and running to the door, her legs wobbling beneath her.

***

She’d noticed her hands when she reached for the door of Satan’s office. Nails sharp, pointed, fingers webbed.

Now she sees that her hair is sand brown and dull, her eyes and lips the same pale, dirty color. Her eyes seem to leak mud. It’s as if the color of it is all through her, as if it’s her blood. She remembers being bright and burnished. A long time ago, after the War, Uriel had told her that the changes marked the degree of corruption of the soul. Michael stares at herself for a long time, wondering why it was like this for her, when all Crowley got was different hair and eyes—slightly different shades for each and slits for pupils. Her eyes don’t even have pupils; her hair isn’t even the same texture—and it looks like it will never be clean. It isn’t fair, she thinks, and she feels the anger twist in her belly like a blade plunged in by a cruel assailant.

“Thank you,” she says, handing the mirror back to Dagon. “And here’s the...paperwork.”

“Excellent,” Dagon says. “Welcome. Officially...Surga.”

Michael nods at the new name. She’s trying not to show any emotion. She’s the Archangel fucking Michael. She’s _ Michael_.

“Do you...feel up to a couple of visitors?”

“Who is it?” she snaps. She feels herself already starting to seethe, picturing them, the two of them, come to stand and gawk and threaten. Maybe to smite or kill—they’d both done it, they’re not above it, they’re not above anything.

“A...Gabriel, Sandalphon, and Uriel, I believe they said,” Dagon says, smirking.

They’d come for her? Then…

“All right,” she says.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s late in the day when they drive up, so they don’t stop at the glade. Crowley had worried the fear would dog them even now, but the mood is light; they’re happy just to be alone, together, and if Crowley is honest with himself, on the move. Aziraphale has braced himself by the door, but he’s talking to Crowley about something other than his driving speed, and that’s always a success. Something seems to have lifted between them, the fear subsiding.

“Angel,” he says, leaning over to him. “I think we’re going to be OK.”

“Watch the road, Crowley,” he says. But he takes Crowley’s hand and is silent for a moment, before he whispers, “I know we will. I can feel it.”

They unload outside the cottage, where they hadn’t even made it the first time. You can hear the sea from the driveway, and it’s a lovely little place. Very English and old-fashioned. Pure Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, smiling. He follows the angel inside and finds it surprisingly sleek and modern.

“Where did you find this place?” he asks.

“Something called Air Bed-and-Breakfast,” Aziraphale says proudly. “It’s an _ app_.”

Crowley bites back a smile. But he’s impressed.

***

“Wait—” Michael whispers, grabbing Uriel’s sleeve as the three angels turn to leave. Uriel pulls back, appalled, and Gabriel and Sandalphon turn as if backing her up. Michael shrinks from them, unable to dismiss the memory of their hands on her shoulders, pushing her, and the fall, down down, and the smell, and the burning…

“Uriel?” Gabriel says. “Are you all right?”

“It’s fine,” Uriel says, her voice bored. “What is it, Surga?”

_ Michael. _ Michael hesitates. “I want...I want to talk to you alone.”

“I don’t think—” Gabriel begins.

But Uriel sighs. “It’s fine,” she says again. “Gabriel, just let me talk to her.”

Sandalphon gives an exaggerated little bow, and Uriel steps back into the little room with Michael. When Michael slams the metal door shut with a clang, Uriel winces.

“I need holy water,” Michael hisses, her voice low so they won’t hear her in the hall. She’s got no status here, can’t risk being seen to disobey.

“Oh, my _ God_, Mi-Surga. Let go of this.”

“Why should I? I’m a demon, Uriel. Just get it for me.”

“I can’t be a part of this.”

“You don’t know what I want it for. You don’t. Just get it for me. Your hands are clean if you don’t know. Please, Uriel. I’ll never ask you for anything again if you do this.”

Uriel sighs, shaking her head, and Michael wants to crumple at her feet and beg, which ought to be unthinkable when you consider the state of the floors and the fact that she is—was—the Archangel Michael, but then, as if she’s tired, Uriel snaps her fingers, and hands Michael a glass vial.

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” she says, pressing her eyes closed as Michael’s webbed fingers close around it. And she’s gone, without another glance at Michael, the door banging shut behind her.

***

Aziraphale does a thing when they’re inside. Crowley doesn’t know what to think. Maybe he ought to have told the angel he liked the cottage, that he’d been glad he’d been willing to try an app. Maybe, when Aziraphale had looked proud, he ought to have pulled him close and whispered those things to him, and held on even when he looked shy, and kissed him until he reached up and pressed a hand to Crowley’s neck and said again and blessedly, “I want you inside me.” Crowley would not have disappointed him.

But instead, Crowley had taken the angel’s hand and let Aziraphale lead him around and show him all the rooms, that he’d only seen in photos, and Crowley had smiled and not said anything, and in the bedroom upstairs, when Aziraphale opened the window to let in the smell and sound of the sea, Crowley had shivered with the cold even as he pulled Aziraphale toward him and kissed him lightly on the lips. He’d been thinking then, how special the angel was, how lucky he was that Aziraphale had not turned away from him in Eden, in Mesopotamia, in Golgotha, in Rome. Or any of the times since. How fortunate they’d been that Adam had given him his beautiful, soft body back—he’d have never gotten a new one after what they’d done, not from Heaven. But he didn’t say any of that. And when Aziraphale felt Crowley shivering, he pulled down the window and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I think I’ll try the shower,” Crowley said, dreamily. It had looked magnificent. And showers were sensual...it would be a nice prelude for him. It would make his skin soft and fragrant for whatever they did next. Aziraphale would appreciate that, he decided.

But that’s when Aziraphale does it. His eyes grow wide and he lets go of Crowley’s hand, looking down and away, not meeting Crowley’s eye, as if Crowley has done something to hurt him.

“Or I could stay with you,” Crowley says, quickly. “Bed? Aziraphale?”

“I’m going to take a walk, I think,” he says. “Just—along the cliffs.”

“You—you think that’s _ safe _?”

But he’s so still, Crowley knows this look, the way he twitches before answering, the way his movements go jerky and direct, like they’re all an effort. He’s _ hiding _ something, and Crowley had thought they were done with all that. 

“What’s that? Oh, yes. I’ll be fine, my dear.” He’s already started backing away, like he’s afraid Crowley might try to stop him.

“Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice comes out desperate, strangled. He moves toward the angel, instinctively reaching out for him, “Do you want to...go back to London?”

“Of course not! No. Listen, everything is...tickety-boo. But I really must pop off now. Enjoy your...ablutions.”

  



	14. Chapter 14

Michael waits until their footsteps no longer echo in the halls. She looks down at the holy water in her hands, not sure yet what it is she intends to do. The way she looks at it, there are several options.

She could return to Earth as a bat, and try again to kill the angel, with hellfire, ideally in front of Crowley, but the effect would be much the same in either case: Crowley miserable without his blessed Principality.

She could return to Earth with a body and kill Crowley. Finally. That would, undoubtedly be the most satisfying course of events. But she’d have to apply for the body. And after the conversation with Lu— with _ Satan _ yesterday, that didn’t seem terribly likely to pan out.

Or she could...well...she could possess someone, maybe? It could hardly be so difficult if _ Aziraphale _ had managed it. But _ how had he? _How was it done? Would she have to be back up on Earth to find someone to possess? Was there some kind of primer on how to be a demon? No, no, probably not. And she doesn't want to ask Dagon and tip her off. She wonders if she could slip away again. Absently, she rolls the vial in her hands, her grip growing tighter and tighter.

***

Crowley does not _ enjoy his ablutions_. He shivers all through the hot shower, like there’s an icy hand on his heart. He steams up the bathroom, but it won’t let go. He must have been in the shower for more than an hour. But when he comes back into the bedroom, dry and in the soft silk trousers he favors for sleep, Aziraphale is still gone.

Crowley stills himself. There must be a good reason, he tells himself. But it doesn’t help. All he can think of is Michael, a demon now. All he can think of is Heaven, coming for his angel.

He walks to the window, sees him there, at the edge of the cliff, illuminated by the moonlight. There’s something wrong in his posture, something desperate. He wouldn’t...hurt himself? No, Crowley can’t think of that. But the thought has crossed his mind, and that’s enough. He doesn’t spare a thought for the cold before he runs down the stairs, and outside, but when he gets to the cliff, Aziraphale isn’t there. With a sick swoop, Crowley forces himself not to look over, to just keep moving. And then there he is, further down the beach, just walking, looking not broken, but thoughtful. The wind rippling his hair and coat. And Crowley feels cold and ashamed. The angel needed space. Just space. Perhaps...that was all. Perhaps it was nothing to do with Crowley. Perhaps there’s nothing wrong at all. Crowley miracles himself a coat and watches a moment longer, then turns back to the cottage. He’s afraid to leave him there, but there’s nothing else to be done. Aziraphale will tell him the truth, if he wants to. Crowley can only hope he does.

Inside, Crowley sits in the living room a while, sipping a whiskey and warming himself by the fire, before going upstairs and trying out the bed alone. Aziraphale will come back, he tells himself. He came here with him; he’d reserved the cottage himself. He’d been so _ happy_. How could anything be wrong? Crowley leaves the window open in case Aziraphale needs him. But he doesn’t think the angel is in any danger. He’ll come.

***

When they find her, or rather, when they find the water and glass shards on the floor of her empty room, they’re not sure what to make of it.

“You said you left the angels alone with her,” Hastur says. 

And Dagon shakes her head. “She was still in here when they left. “Heard her moving around.”

“But one of them must have given it to her then,” he says. “Blessed lot, them.”

Dagon rolls her eyes at Beelzebub.

“So then she did it to herself?” Hastur says.

“Must you always state the obvious?” Beelzebub asks.

“Blessed lot,” Hastur repeats. “You think it was on purpose? She was the Archangel wank wings, and all that. Too much for her to stand?”

“She was one of us,” Beelzebub says. “Think she just got blinded by her rage. I’ll let him know.”

“Who, Crowley?” says Hastur.

Beelzebub narrows her eyes. “No. Satan, you idiot.”

In the end, there was no consensus. The only thing Heaven and Hell were certain of was that Michael or Surga, depending on your perspective, was gone. Gabriel and Uriel came quietly to remove the mess, Gabriel glaring at the other Archangel, muttering reproachfully about this being the second time he’d been to Hell in his life, and he’d very much appreciate it he never had to return. Uriel did not respond, stoic as ever, except for a tear that coursed down her face.

“I’d appreciate it very much,” Gabriel said to Dagon, “If we could keep this whole incident between us.”

Dagon doesn’t tell him that all of Hell knows the Archangel Michael had been there as one of them. Doesn’t tell him that many of them were already saying it was a kind of cosmic injustice that Michael didn’t have to live in the Hell she’d created when she smote Lucifer, who’d once called her friend.

***

Crowley wakes. It’s morning. Very early morning, the light barely shining in through the window. And there he is. Crowley’s heart unclenches.

“Aziraphale?” he says. And the angel turns. His expression is like nothing Crowley has seen, like Crowley is a tapestry he’s long admired, and now, for the first time, he’s seen the reverse, and finds that it is, to his surprise, just as beautiful. He stands up, and comes to him, sitting on the bed as if Crowley is a treasured invalid, and he brings his hand to Crowley’s jaw, and tips his face up to look him in the eye. When Aziraphale smiles; it’s beatific. He’s lit from within and it almost hurts to look at him. Crowley can sense that he is very, very happy, but there’s something somber about him, and he can’t help the feeling of alarm that overtakes him.

“Angel?”

“Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale says, his voice breathy, reverent. “Crowley—_Cadamiel_—I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: Death/possible (assisted) suicide.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Just one more chapter...though I'm thinking there will be a sequel/Aziraphale-focused follow-up.


	15. Chapter 15

Crowley presses his eyes closed. Is this happening? “Cadamiel,” Aziraphale repeats. His eyes shine as he leans over Crowley. He kisses his jawline, the angel’s lips pressing just where his fingers had brushed, that first time he’d touched him there, in Heaven. “My beautiful angel,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley winces, even as he feels something within him, something hard and frozen, soften and melt.

“No, just Crowley,” he says, softly, swallowing. He’s scared now, uncertain. “Just me, angel.”

But Aziraphale’s smile is indulgent. “Oh, my dear,” he says. “I didn’t mean...I _ know _ who you _ are _ . And _ now _ I know who you _ were _ . What _ we _ were.” He kisses Crowley’s jaw, kisses the snake sigil on his face, kisses his demon eyes, lifts his hands to his lips. Crowley can’t move, his body is stiff, his eyes full. Aziraphale kisses his tears. “Do you know,” Aziraphale says, “for a long time, I think I missed you. Even before I knew. I think I missed Cadamiel until Rome,” he says, and laughs. “But after that, when we were apart, I started to miss Crowley.”

The words stir something inside of Crowley and he takes a shuddering breath, and sits up, pushing his back against the pillows. Aziraphale is crying, the tears sliding down his face even as he smiles that radiant smile. Crowley reaches up, puts a hand to the angel’s face, wiping them away. “What happened?” he says. “Why do you—?”

“I don’t know. But I’m so glad. Oh, _ Crowley _ . _ Oh _.” And Aziraphale is smiling and weeping and Crowley can’t help but do the same, and they cling to each other’s hands, but he has to make sure. He has to be sure Aziraphale understands. So he shakes his head and holds Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I’m not him, angel. Not anymore.”

“I _ know_, my dear. But I don’t want _ him_. Not _ now_. Don’t you see? I want you. Just as I always did. But now I can...I can want all of you. Everything we were and are.” Aziraphale leans forward and kisses Crowley’s mouth. It’s long and slow and deep, his tongue moving inside of Crowley’s mouth as if he wants to taste everything he is. Crowley grabs him, pulls him so close he’s not sitting anymore. He doesn’t think he can ever let go.

Of course he does: he lets go to slide his fingers under Aziraphale’s collar, peppering his neck with kisses. He smells like the air by the sea. He smells like books, he smells like life, like the whole of Crowley’s. He takes the tips of Aziraphale’s bow-tie and pulls them loose, unbuttons the collar the shirt—stopping for the waistcoat, the suspenders, the shirt.

“Aziraphale…really,” he moans in protest, as an undershirt peeks out at him. But he kisses everything he uncovers, darting his tongue out to taste the smells of Heaven and Earth on the angel.

“I like it like this,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley a meaningful look. “I _ like _ how long it takes.” 

Crowley gapes at him. “You what?”

Aziraphale smiles sweetly and trails his hand down Crowley’s bare chest.

“Ridiculous bastard,” Crowley growls. But he takes his time with the buttons.

When Aziraphale is finally out of his shirt, he kisses Crowley back down on the bed and palms him through the single layer of silk. Crowley groans and arches up into his touch. Aziraphale slides his hand beneath the waistband. Crowley gulps at the contact.

“See how easy I make it for you?” Crowley whispers. He’d intended it to sound clever, but instead the words sound wrenched from him, desperate. His eyes are closed, and he feels Aziraphale kissing him, stopping to suck at his neck, at his chest, and then Aziraphale whispers.

“You do, my dear. You always do. I want…” he moves his hand again, against Crowley’s cock, and Crowley lets out a low whine. “I want to kiss you here. All right?”

“Angel, anything. Anything.”

His mouth on Crowley is soft and warm. Crowley has never done this before. Something inside him warns him to be careful and he is, trying to keep himself from bucking up into Aziraphale’s mouth and hurting him or throwing him off. Finally, he put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and meets his eyes, and he can’t stand this, the sight of him there, between Crowley’s legs, his mouth full of Crowley, devouring him.

“Oh, God,” he says. “Come here.” He isn’t sure what he wants, but as it turns out, what he wants is to hold the angel, to pull him in and feel him rest against his chest, and tell him over and over again that he loves him. But Aziraphale’s answer is to kiss his neck again, and Crowley moves, finds himself on top of the angel, kissing and stroking his body this time, down the soft pale hair, and opening the buttons of his trousers.

“Aziraphale?” he says.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Yes, _ please_, Crowley.”

Crowley kisses him there, too, flicks his tongue over him, tasting, coaxing out the pleasure as he kisses the soft, pale skin of his thighs, and takes him into his mouth. He writhes and wiggles beneath the touch of Crowley’s demon mouth and then Aziraphale’s hand is in his hair, rubbing, stroking, guiding, and then he says. “Crowley, I’m close. Is that...all right?”

Crowley nods and he doesn’t stop until Aziraphale’s cries turn to whispers, “Crowley, please. I want you...I want you to...inside. Inside.”

Crowley presses their chests together for a moment; they thrust against each other, and kiss, tasting themselves on each other, then he holds himself up on one arm, and slides his hand down, pressing a finger in to check. These bodies can be manipulated beyond what normal human bodies can do, but Crowley finds what he wants, as he so often does—Aziraphale soft and warm and welcoming—and Aziraphale arches against him again, so he positions himself there, and pushes in. 

“All right?” he says, even as Aziraphale thrusts against him and snakes an arm around him to keep him close.

When they finally collapse against each other, holding each other in the sea air blowing into the room, it’s afternoon. And everything, yet again, feels changed. Aziraphale raises a hand to brush through Crowley’s hair. He smiles at him, looking...satisfied.

“I doubt very much I would have done that with Cadamiel,” he says.

Crowley laughs.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, placing just a slight emphasis on the last word. “You know, I’m not the same as I was then, either.”

“No, angel, you’re not. I don’t think _ that _Aziraphale would have done that at all.”

“And that’s...I mean—? You don't wish—?” he looks uncertain, and Crowley pulls back a little, in surprise. How can he ask that? 

“Aziraphale,” he says, “It was Rome for me, too, angel. It was different then. In Heaven. Good, but different. This is better. I’m so glad to know you like this—I’m glad you’re the way you are. With everything. And all we’ve done together, I mean, I—”

Crowley is grateful when Aziraphale cuts him off with a kiss and sighs happily.

“Do you want to tell me...?” Crowley says. “I mean, I’ve wondered for so long.”

“Wondered what, my dear?”

“About what it was all like for you. Heaven. After I Fell. The battle, and...everything.” _Me. _He knows Aziraphale will hear what he’s not asking.Aziraphale snuggles against him and says.

“Now that I know, my dear, I’ll tell you all I remember. It was...awful. But I think we can help each other, don’t you? Be there for each other?”

Crowley nods. He finds the angel’s hand and clasps it, pulling it to rest on his chest.

“So there are things that I would very much like it if...if you could tell me, too. If you’d let me know what it was like for you.”

He asks so gently, so carefully. And yes, there is so much more to say. Crowley gulps, remembering how he’d walked away from Aziraphale with Gabriel that night in the forest in Heaven, and never returned. Crowley doesn’t talk about his Fall, unless he’s raging at God alone, but after more than six thousand years, Aziraphale is here now to help him with the pain. Aziraphale is here to love him, all of him, if he will give him everything. Crowley looks at him, at his sweet angel, whose eyes are clear and earnest and tender, as they have always been. And Crowley tells him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Smut! Sorry (not sorry).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This has been so much fun. I'm doing another piece in this series from Aziraphale's POV. If you liked this one, I hope you'll read that one, too.
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr at leilakalomi.tumblr.com


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